


Soho

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Break Up, Communication, Dating, Domestic Violence, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Good Omens Rom Com Event, Humor, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Join Me As I Fix Everything I Didn't Like About Notting Hill, Lurlur's Consent Kink, M/M, Mention of Eating Disorders, Misunderstandings, Rated E for Eventually Getting Some, Rejection, Reunions, Rock Stars, Romance, Smut, There's a lot more kissing, more tags will inevitably follow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 69,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Aziraphale lives a quiet kind of life, running a quiet specialist bookshop in one of the liveliest districts of London. He's content with his lot, happy with his friends, tolerant of his probably-human housemate, living vicariously through the gossip pages.One day, a chance encounter with Anthony Crowley, lead singer of wildly successful rock bandThe Demons, threatens to turn his whole world upside down.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1602
Kudos: 984
Collections: Bittersweet Good Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Rom Com Event, Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my best birb, RobynTheMagpie, without whom this AU would have never taken flight.
> 
> My great thanks to everyone who has cheered, encouraged, beta read, and bounced ideas with me: Robyn, Bucky, Tarek, Narumi, Sosobriquet, Caedmon, Handlebars, and anyone I'm forgetting. 
> 
> Thank you as well to bisasterdi for being a powerhouse of organisational skill and putting this event together.
> 
> This is my first human AU. I hope you like it.

Aziraphale Fell unlocked the door to his shop and juggled with the keys, milk, newspaper, and loaf of bread in his hands as he wrestled the door open. It closed behind him with a click, muffling the sounds of the bustling street outside. He dropped the paper and keys on the counter before wandering through the backroom to the tiny kitchenette to put the bread and milk away.

Fell’s History Books had occupied the same spot in Soho for almost fifteen years, a single unit shop in a terrace of bars, fast food outlets, and other independent retailers like Aziraphale. When he’d bought the place with a chunk of his inheritance, there had been private flats above the shop. Somewhere along the line, a chain hotel had acquired all of the upper floors and converted them into identical rabbit hutch rooms for which they could charge a fortune. Aziraphale missed the flats, missed knowing the tenants, and he missed the sense of community that they had all created together.

It was, he supposed, the price of progress, much like the card reader and electronic till that he’d invested in. Change isn’t always for the best, but being left behind is bad for business.

Aziraphale wandered through the shop, patting his pockets absently until he saw his keys on the counter and scooped them up. Now suitably armed, Aziraphale unlocked the safe and took out the till float. With the shop set up for the day, Aziraphale turned on the lights and flipped the sign on the door to display “open”.

Settling in his chair behind the counter, Aziraphale shook open the newspaper and started reading about the horrors of the world, his heart sinking further with every new article. The world seemed to be falling apart in all the worst and most hurtful ways. As a dedicated student of history, Aziraphale knew the patterns of human behaviour as well as he knew how he liked his tea. He was wearied by the way that men in power continued to amass power and wealth whilst pitting the lower classes against each other. With war, famine, pollution and death earning headlines in every country, Aziraphale wanted to believe in a softer world. Working in retail could make it challenging to see the goodness in individuals as well, though Aziraphale tried his best anyway.

Finally, desperate for some mindless distraction from the grim news, he flipped to the celebrity gossip pages. He felt like a stereotype whenever he read articles about the red carpet looks at the Oscars, or the latest high-profile break-up, or gossip from the set of the summer blockbuster. He didn’t let that stop him from enjoying it, but he did make sure that few people knew about his guilty pleasure. As a gay man living in Soho, Aziraphale felt that there were only so many stereotypes he could allow to apply to him.

The bell on the door chimed just as Aziraphale got to the entertainment and gossip pages; he slammed the paper closed and looked up with a bright, if slightly manic, smile.

“Good morning! Let me know if you need help finding anything,” he greeted the customer, an older man with a cane and a large shopping bag.

The man stepped briskly into the shop, poking at the books covering the English civil war. Aziraphale watched him for a few seconds before deciding that he was unlikely to shoplift or cause any kind of trouble.

The paper seemed to fall open to the last pages he’d had open, a double-page spread of overexposed and unflattering images with captions that disgraced the profession of journalism. A young Hollywood starlet had been seen on the arm of an older man and known womaniser. The hottest boy band of the moment were rumoured to be splitting. Drama was reported from the set of the latest HBO epic with two of the leads having been seen clashing in public. Aziraphale was scandalised and delighted by turns.

He was reading about the festival rider issued by a phenomenally successful rock band when a series of increasingly impolite coughs dragged his attention away.

“I do beg your pardon. How can I help?” Aziraphale gave the man the brightest customer service smile that he could muster.

Given that the gentleman in question looked about as happy as a slapped fish, any smile at all should be considered a blessing. He slapped a small pile of books on the counter and huffed as Aziraphale rang them up.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” Aziraphale asked, still smiling.

“I don’t suppose you carry anything on local history?” The man’s accent was an impractically polished exaggeration of received pronunciation.

“Ah, no. I don’t believe I have anything like that in stock. If you have a particular title in mind, I’d be happy to order it in for you.”

The man sucked his teeth in a way that made Aziraphale’s skin crawl.

“Typical, I should write to your head office about this. You see if I don’t, young man. Just these then, I suppose,” he patted the bag that Aziraphale had packed the books into.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale beamed. “Your total is £45.94.”

He took the unreasonably crisp banknotes from the man and dispensed his change, barely waiting until the man was out of the door before snorting with laughter over the idea of receiving a letter of complaint about himself. From the way that the man glared back into the shop after untying his dachshund from the bike rack, Aziraphale had no doubt that his laughter had been heard. Feeling cheeky, he gave a little wave and a smile out of the shop window before settling back down to his newspaper.

Aziraphale was just reading about the precise number and arrangement of Tunnock’s tea cakes that would have to be present in a dressing room in order to get a performance from _The Demons_ when the bell above the door rang out again.

“Morning, Aziraphale!”

“Good morning, Newt. You’re early again,” Aziraphale greeted his shop assistant with a friendly smile.

Newt wandered into the little backroom to dump his bag and click the kettle on to make a cup of tea.

“My phone reset itself to Central European Time in the night so I woke up an hour early. I was halfway here before I realised!” Newt called from the back. “Tea?”

“Yes please, Newt. I picked up fresh milk on the way in.”

A few minutes later, Newt and Aziraphale were sat on either side of the counter each nursing a mug of tea.

“Anything good, today?” Newt asked with a nod towards the paper.

“It’s all doom and gloom, I’m afraid. You’d think it was the end of the world with the way some of these journalists carry on.” Aziraphale griped, pulling a sour face.

“And, the, uh, more colourful pages? Anything about our favourites?” Newt maintained a reasonably innocent expression as he asked.

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale warmed to this subject immediately, leaning in conspiratorially. “Have you seen the statement from HBO about that whole wall slam incident?”

Shaking his shaggy head, Newt encouraged Aziraphale to share what he’d read as they drank their tea and warmed up to the idea of doing any real work.

In truth, Aziraphale could run the bookshop alone if he’d wanted. It wasn’t really too busy for one person to manage, and he set the hours to suit himself already. That said, his online business had been picking up and it was pleasant to be able to deal with fulfilling orders without worrying about being interrupted. Besides, Aziraphale enjoyed having someone to talk to every day.

“There’s a delivery due this morning, I’ll be out back packing up some orders so give me a shout when it comes in?” Aziraphale said once he’d finished his tea.

“Yep, alright. I’ll hold the fort,” Newt grinned and gestured to the empty shop. “Keep back the teeming masses as best I can.”

Aziraphale retreated to the backroom to print out a list of his orders and put some bread in the toaster for a snack. By the time he had gathered the books he needed, the toast was done and he had to navigate the difficult task of spreading butter on toast without getting smudges and crumbs all over the pristine books.

Every morning, Aziraphale told himself that he would eat before sorting out the orders. Every morning, Aziraphale would immediately forget and end up with toast in one hand and a book held carefully in the other. The pattern was as frustrating as it was comforting in its familiarity.

Soon losing himself in the simple monotony of packing orders, Aziraphale zoned out until Newt called from the front.

“I’ll be there in a moment!” Aziraphale responded, sticking an address label on the last package.

“Uh, I really think you should come out here now!” Newt sounded more panicked than a simple delivery warranted.

Aziraphale dropped the package on top of the pile he’d made and hurried out of the backroom only to find Newt barricading the door with his arms. A woman stood in front of him, tapping her foot and huffing.

“What’s going on out here? Newt?” Aziraphale demanded.

“This lady is trying to steal a book!” Newt didn’t look away from the woman as he spoke. “I saw her stuff it down her top!”

Aziraphale stepped up to Newt and placed a calming hand on his arm to diffuse the tension.

“It’s OK, stand down. I’ve got this.”

Reluctantly, Newt dropped his arms to his sides and moved away from the door, not taking his eyes off the accused shoplifter. Aziraphale took a moment to look at her more closely, the distinctive outline of a book was clearly visible through the fabric of her shirt. In fact, if he looked closer, he could even make out the title.

“Madam, I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience,” he put one hand on the door handle as if to open it for her. The woman preened and made a nasty face at Newt. “I’m sure you must want to be on your way. Carrying a copy of  _ The Fall of Rome _ under your shirt must get tiring.” Aziraphale kept up a mask of perfect innocence whilst the thief grew pale.

Aziraphale pulled the door open a few inches, ringing the little bell as he did so. The woman looked frantically between his face and the door before slumping in on herself as much as the book allowed. Someone pushed the door from outside as Aziraphale was holding it, he stepped aside and held the door fully open, still watching his would-be shoplifter.

“Oh, how did that get there?” She slipped the book out from under her shirt and slid it on to the counter.

“Will wonders never cease?” Aziraphale said brightly, grinning at Newt. “Now, I’m afraid that I must insist on charging you for that book. I couldn’t possibly sell it to anyone else in this condition.”

He passed the woman as she fished around in her handbag, pulling out her purse and then a debit card. As he rang up the book, Aziraphale watched Newt relax out of the corner of his eye. He really was a good sort, if a bit dramatic.

“Now, will you be needing a bag for your purchase today or will you be carrying it out under your shirt again?” Aziraphale’s warm smile at odds with his cutting tone.

The woman snatched up the book and stormed out of the shop, leaving Newt and Aziraphale to double over in laughter at her bizarre and ineffectual attempt at robbery. It did them good to laugh together, Aziraphale disliked feeling too much like Newt’s boss and these moments really helped to dissolve the formality of their friendship.

Wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, Aziraphale remembered the customer who had entered during the stand-off. Looking about, he quickly spotted the man standing towards the rear of the shop, wearing all black and with his red hair tied into a messy ponytail. His hands were stuffed into the tight pockets of his jeans as he browsed the small section covering the industrial revolution.

Aziraphale gave Newt a nod, indicating that he’d take care of the customer and stepped out from behind the counter, tugging on his cardigan and straightening the collar of his shirt. The giggling fit had been very unprofessional and not at all the sort of impression he wanted to give a new customer. He approached the man from one side, struck by a feeling of familiarity that he couldn’t immediately place.

“Good morning!” Aziraphale started, smiling brightly. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can help you find.”

The man turned to look at him as he spoke, revealing dark glasses tucked into the neck of his t-shirt and an open, unguarded expression.

“Uh, yeah, thanks. I will.”

“Oh good lord, you’re Anthony Crowley.” Aziraphale didn’t mean to blurt it out like a star-struck teenager, but there it is.

The outburst sat between them like cold cat vomit on the carpet, Crowley’s face hardening in ways that deepened Aziraphale’s regret. He wants to take it back, to reverse time just a few seconds and regain a modicum of self-control, anything if it would allow him to see the soft and relaxed expression that Crowley had been wearing mere moments before.

“Gosh, I’m sorry. You must get that all the time.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered nervously between them, not doing anything as daring as reaching towards Crowley. “Please, browse all you like. This one is rather good, I think.” He leaned forward to tap the glossy cover of a book called  _ Liberty’s Dawn _ before giving the man some space.

“Right, thanks.” His tone was clipped but when Aziraphale looked back over his shoulder, Crowley had the book in his hands.

Reclaiming his stool behind the counter, Aziraphale ushered Newt over as discretely as he could and tried to express with eye contact and increasingly exaggerated nods that Newt should take a look at the shop’s sole customer. When that yielded less than desirable results, Aziraphale resorted to whispering under his breath, trying desperately to keep  _ the _ Anthony J. Crowley from overhearing.

“Newt, that’s the singer from  _ The Demons _ ! I can’t imagine what he might want in my little bookshop, though.” Aziraphale wittered, keeping his eyes fixed on the security mirror that allowed him to keep watch over the back of the shop.

“A book, I imagine,” Newt answered.

Aziraphale’s bark of laughter startled Newt so much that he nearly fell off his stool and had to catch himself on the counter. Days when Newt’s jokes made anyone laugh were about as frequent as cold days in Hell.

Minutes later, when Crowley approached the counter with  _ Liberty’s Dawn _ still held in his slender fingers, Aziraphale managed to find his warmest and most genuine smile for the transaction.

“Ah, you decided to take my recommendation. How lovely. I do think this is a fascinating look at the human impact of the industrial revolution. Is it a topic that you’re greatly interested in?” Aziraphale aimed for polite inquiry but landed in babbling simpleton instead.

“Uh, not especially,” Crowley answered with a shrug, one hand fidgeting with the sunglasses hanging from his shirt. “Seemed as good a pick as anything else.”

Aziraphale refused to be put off by the cool response, even as he flailed through the conversation like a bull in a china shop.

“It could do with some more input from the marginalised voices, women, minority races and religions, that sort of thing, but those experiences were so infrequently recorded.” Aziraphale pulled a sad little face at this, mourning the loss of historical sources.

Crowley mirrored his expression, looking dramatically devastated and delightfully mocking all at once. Something that had been gently simmering inside Aziraphale since he’d seen the red-headed stranger across the shop floor finally erupted into a rolling boil. He wanted to impress Crowley, to make him smile, to have him leave the shop with a favourable impression.

After dropping the book into a paper bag, Aziraphale tapped at the touchscreen of his till and brought up the total to pay. Crowley offered his phone to pay via some kind of contactless wizardry that the till took care of itself. Seeing this rare interaction coming to an end, Aziraphale tamped down his nervous energy and cast about for something to prolong it a few moments longer.

“Ah!” he said as much to Crowley as to himself as he scooped up a tartan travel thermos from a display beside the counter. “Special offer today: buy a book, get a free thermos. Could be useful for all sorts of things, soup, tea, throwing at ducks. The possibilities are, well, not  _ endless _ I suppose. Varied, certainly.” He was rambling and feared that he didn’t know how to stop.

“Unusual,” Crowley said, one eyebrow raising above the frame of his sunglasses. “Striking pattern, too.”

“Tartan is stylish,” Aziraphale offered, grateful for Crowley’s interruption. He dropped the flask into the bag and offered it over to Crowley.

“Thank you,” Crowley said with a little nod before turning towards the door.

“Thank you! Enjoy the industrial revolution! I mean, reading about it, at least. Come back any time. And he’s gone. What a pillock I am.” These last two comments were aimed squarely at himself as he watched Crowley (THE Anthony Crowley!) saunter past the shop front.

“Oh, don’t worry Aziraphale. You handled that like a pro!” Newt leaned over to nudge Aziraphale in the ribs with his elbow. “Real smooth. I’m sure he’ll be back in here to sweep you off your feet any minute now.”

Aziraphale felt the colour rising to his cheeks as Newt teased him.

“If you carry on being this cruel to me, using things told to you in confidence to mock me, see how much longer you have a job!” Aziraphale grinned to soften his threat, feeling the tattered remnants of his pride slipping from his grasp.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea.” Newt slipped off his stool and scooped up Aziraphale’s mug for a refill, their standard gesture of assuring that no feelings had been injured.

Resting his chin in his palm, Aziraphale leaned on the counter and tried to bask in the fluttery feelings that his brief encounter had caused. A brief encounter with the only rock star that Aziraphale could ever imagine having a crush on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am delighted by the response to this story so far. You all make me so happy! Thank you!
> 
> As ever, love to my team of cheerleaders, betas, all-round gorgeous humans.

Business picked up over the course of the morning, peaking with the stream of lunchtime browsers that wandered in and out around midday. Once things began to wind down again, Aziraphale was able to putter about, finding all the books that had been left in the wrong places and returning them to their rightful shelves. By the time that he’d straightened the place up again, he’d almost completely forgotten about his brief brush with the extraordinary, instead caught up in the patterns of his usual monotony.

Setting a fresh mug of tea down on the counter in front of Newt, Aziraphale took the weight off his feet for a few minutes and sipped his tea. With a little thought, he could see the next twenty years of his life spent just like this, quietly watching his shop with endless mugs of tea and all the books he could ever hope to read. Sometimes, he fancied writing something himself. A small volume on one of his special interests, perhaps. It would be satisfying, Aziraphale thought, to see his name on the spine of a book. In his wildest dreams, he could imagine even selling his own work to eager customers, or gaining a reputation as something of an expert, someone to be consulted. It would be a perfectly lovely way to leave his mark on the world, something that said he existed.

“Aziraphale, sorry. It’s happened again.” Newt’s worried voice dragged Aziraphale out of his daydream and back to reality. “I only tried to scan the book like you showed me.”

Tutting and shuffling around the counter to get at the till, Aziraphale banished his idyllic fancies in order to focus on whatever catastrophic electronics failure that Newt had managed to trigger.

“The screen is in Latin, Newt! That shouldn’t even be a feature!”

As luck would have it, the customer was happy to pay in cash and accept a handwritten receipt whilst Aziraphale called the customer support line for the till system.

“Good afternoon, Eve! Yes, it’s Mr Fell here again. How are the boys getting on?” Aziraphale had been on familiar terms with the support staff for a number of weeks already, having needed to call them an average of once a day since the new system had been set up. “Shocking, Eve, you tell her from me that it’s a very modern sounding name.”

After half an hour of troubleshooting and a full system restart, Aziraphale had the till working again. He was starting to suspect that the thing was more trouble than it was worth.

“My thanks to you, Eve, you’re an angel. Ha ha, yes, I imagine I’ll have to choose between Newt and the till before long! My love to the family, speak soon. Ta ta.” He ended the call and caught the stricken expression on Newt’s face just before he managed to rein it in. “Oh, Newt, don’t look so upset. Until they make a till that likes gossip and can make a decent cuppa, your job is safe.”

Aziraphale had meant it as a joke, a light-hearted jibe at Newt’s apparent curse when it came to using any kind of sophisticated electronic device.

“I don’t know why it doesn’t like me,” Newt said, sullen. “I swear I’m doing just like you showed me.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly and patted him on the shoulder in an attempt at being consoling.

“Perhaps we can work out a way for the customers to ring themselves up while you supervise, hmm?” The idea was just enough to get a smirk out of Newt so Aziraphale was able to relax again. “Oh crumbs, look at the time. I must get these parcels to the post office. Watch the place while I deal with these?”

At Newt’s nod, Aziraphale scooped up the pile of packaged book orders and ducked out of the door. The post office was a little way down the road but the weather was pleasant and the pile was easy enough to carry. Aziraphale quite enjoyed the chance to be out in Soho during days like this, before the bars opened but still with enough life on the streets to keep things interesting. He nodded at the occasional fellow business owner as he passed shop windows, smiling politely and showing his armful of packages when one or two tried to wave him inside for a cup of tea and a chat.

The girl at the post office wasn’t the normal one that Aziraphale dealt with so he was thrown off his beat a little, missing the usual rapport that he had with her. He was sure that Annie would have loved hearing about Anthony Crowley being in Aziraphale’s shop, but the gossip had to wait for another day.

After dealing with his business rather more efficiently than usual, Aziraphale decided to pop into the bubble tea place halfway between the post office and his shop. He reasoned that Newt deserved a treat after having the till pick on him again, and Aziraphale never said no to something sweet and sinful. With a taro milk tea in one hand and a watermelon cooler in the other, Aziraphale began to hurry back to his shop with the aim of rescuing Newt from whatever electronic nightmare he’d managed to tangle himself in during a 20 minute window without supervision.

When the door to the bookshop was in sight, Aziraphale quickened his pace in his eagerness to get back. At that moment, someone darted across the road between two taxis and burst onto the pavement just half a stride in front of Aziraphale. All he saw was a sudden black shape taking up his whole field of vision and then they were both wearing the contents of his cups.

“Ah, fuck!” Said the black shape.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, forlornly, looking at the destroyed drinks and his drenched shirt. He looked up to apologise to the other person only to see the highlight of his morning dripping purple and red. “Oh, Mr Crowley! I am  _ so _ sorry. Goodness me.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and went to mop up some of the mess decorating the rock star’s chest, thinking better of it about an inch short of his target. His hand hovered awkwardly as he looked at the dark glasses and tried to work out if they looked annoyed or not.

“Look at the state of this shirt! I can’t walk around like this!”

Definitely annoyed, Aziraphale decided. In a moment of pure impulse and reckless bravado, Aziraphale heard himself make an offer.

“Let me help, I live just around the corner. It’s the building with the blue door,” Aziraphale pointed towards his home, showing how close it was. “I can lend you a shirt or give you a chance to get cleaned up in private. Whatever you need.”

His heart seemed to freeze in his chest, waiting for Crowley’s response in a kind of suspended animation. Crowley grimaced, flicking a chunk of watermelon off his front, and glanced up to see the direction Aziraphale was pointing.

“Ugh, yes, fine. Whatever.” Crowley muttered, looking distracted.

“I’m sure that we can have you looking spick and span again in no time at all.” Aziraphale started to ramble.

“Sure, lead the way.”

In the minute or so that it took for Aziraphale to get to the door of his building, his nerves increased exponentially. What did he think he was doing? Inviting someone like Crowley into his home? What was he going to do, put a world famous rock star’s shirt in the laundry with his socks and pants? Ask Crowley to wait an hour or more for a washing machine cycle to finish? This was going to be a disaster, no matter how Aziraphale looked at it. He used his key fob to get into the building and lead Crowley up a flight of stairs to his first floor flat.

_ Please, please, please let the place be relatively tidy.  _ Aziraphale said a hurried prayer to any god that might be listening, especially any who dealt with lazy, slobbish flatmates. Pushing open the door, Aziraphale stepped inside and held it for Crowley to follow him through.

“This is the place, such as it is. Sorry, uh, about the mess. I have a simply frightful flatmate.” Aziraphale knew that the rambling was unlikely to stop and tried to lean into it instead. “The bathroom is just down here, on the left. Can I get you anything?”

Crowley smiled and pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, revealing that the smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

“Thanks, I’ll be fine.” He said before heading to the bathroom and closing the door.

Aziraphale used the opportunity to arrange, tidy, and hide much of the mess in the kitchen. His flatmate had left sticky teaspoons all over the counter and Aziraphale was wiping up the residue when Crowley emerged, talking into a phone.

“Yes, Frith Street in ten minutes. The crossroads. Great, thanks.”

He had changed out of his plain black t-shirt and into a loose, v-neck tank top. He carried his jacket in one hand, giving Aziraphale far too much opportunity to admire his toned arms and the smooth skin of his torso. He realised that he was staring just as Crowley ended his phone call and shook himself out of the daze.

“All better? May I offer you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps, or coffee if you prefer?” Once his mouth opened, Aziraphale found it difficult to stop.

“No, thank you.”

“If you’re peckish, I have a little brioche. Toast?” It was like hearing someone else using his voice, Aziraphale desperately wanted to shut up.

“No,” Crowley shook his head slightly with a wry smile.

Aziraphale looked around the kitchen for inspiration, a change of topic, something less awkward to say. His eyes settled on the edge of a package, poking out of the bread bin.

“Angel cake? Although, I can’t vouch for its angelic quality. Not really sure why it’s even called that. Perhaps angels like it. Eight out of ten angels recommend it, or something. Regardless, it’s yours, if you want it.” Aziraphale winced internally as he heard himself blather on pointlessly.

Crowley’s smile grew a little wider.

“No.”

Aziraphale almost gasped at the relief of not having to serve Anthony Crowley supermarket brand angel cake. Lost in this thought, his mouth seemed to fill the silence automatically.

“Do you say no to every question you’re asked?”

There was a moment then, just a beat, where Crowley looked at Aziraphale and seemed to really see him, to see through the nerves and the rambling and the flitting, restless hands to the core of what he was. Then it was gone and Crowley’s face was nothing but mild amusement.

“No.”

Aziraphale huffed a tiny laugh and looked down at his hands, unsure of how to proceed.

“I should be going,” Crowley said, lowering his sunglasses. “Should I say thank you for the, uh, help?”

“Best not, or I might start pouring drinks over all the attractive men I meet.” Aziraphale managed a weak smile. “But you’re welcome and, while I have the chance and nerve to say it, heavenly. Really.”

The atmosphere between them relaxed, eased by poor attempts at humour and genuine amusement. Crowley headed for the door and Aziraphale hurried after him, reaching over Crowley’s shoulder to open the latch.

“Well, goodbye.” Crowley said.

“Yes, well, it’s been charming to meet you. Surreal, but utterly charming.” Aziraphale beamed, opening the door for Crowley.

Crowley gave a nod and a smile, something that felt warm and genuine whilst keeping a measured distance between them. Then he was gone.

The door closed slowly behind him, slipping free of Aziraphale’s hand, as the echoes of his own words settled in his consciousness.

“Surreal but charming?” He muttered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of all the words in the English language, I had to pick ‘surreal but charming’?”

As he berated himself, Aziraphale wandered away from the front door and back into the kitchen, kicking his feet against the floor. He looked down at his shirt, seeing the mess that had splattered onto him for the first time. Resigning himself to a quick change and heading back to the shop, Aziraphale began to unbutton his shirt and untuck it from his trousers when a knock at the door summoned him back down the hall.

“You really must stop losing your key- Oh!” The door swung open and Aziraphale found himself face-to-face once more with the dark glasses and rock star snarl of Anthony Crowley. “Sorry, ah, thought you were my flatmate.”

“Obviously,” he said simply. “Forgot my bags. Can I-?” He was already stepping inside as he asked, heading for the kitchen where his purchases were leaning against the door.

“Ah, of course. Yes.” Aziraphale held the door open, flushing at the unexpected encore, his last chance to look upon the vision of sensuality that Crowley represented.

He’d managed a sinfully indulgent review of Crowley’s body by the time Crowley turned back from the kitchen, Aziraphale forced his gaze back up and schooled his features into something less openly wanting.

Crowley raised the bags, showing his success, and stopped just short of the doorway. He appeared to glance out into the hallway beyond for a moment before looking back at Aziraphale.

“All set, then?” Aziraphale asked, managing to sound almost like a normal human person while Crowley hesitated.

“Not quite, I think,” Crowley said cryptically, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair and looking at Aziraphale with an expression that made Aziraphale feel like his insides were melting.

Crowley took a half step forward and bent his head to close the few inches of distance between their lips, pausing just shy of meeting Aziraphale’s mouth with his own. It couldn’t have been more than a second of hesitancy, but Aziraphale felt it stretch on for millennia. It was a distance that he couldn’t cross, he couldn’t be the one to take this step and snatch a gift from the gods themselves. The heat of Crowley’s body, hovering so close, threatened to overwhelm him. Finally,  _ finally, _ Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s and kissed him.

Aziraphale let go of the door on reflex, hearing it close softly a few seconds later. A moment later, Crowley’s bags slumped to the floor and Crowley was crowding him backwards into the wall. Aziraphale was frozen in place, pinned against the wall by his lips alone and too overwhelmed to even consider putting his hands on Crowley. To touch him would be to defile him, these mortal, everyday hands didn’t deserve to know how Crowley’s skin or hair might feel.

Then Crowley’s hips were against him, grounding him and elating him in equal measure. One of Crowley’s long-fingered hands curled into Aziraphale’s collar, brushing the nape of his neck and easily slipping under the fabric. Aziraphale let out an involuntary gasp at the contact, his lips parting ever so slightly. Crowley took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, teasing Aziraphale’s slightly parted lips with the tip of his tongue until Aziraphale found his senses and met it with his own. He tasted all the wonder of Crowley, the forbidden fruit that should be denied to mere mortals.

Only then, when Crowley groaned into his mouth and pressed closer still, did Aziraphale dare to touch him, one hand landing on Crowley’s sharp hip and holding tight. In response, Crowley’s other hand found its way under the untucked hem of Aziraphale’s shirt. The cool, calloused fingertips stroked up his ribs, a slow exploration that set Aziraphale alight.

Just as Aziraphale was starting to believe that this was actually happening, Crowley froze and then broke away, withdrawing his hands and looking sheepish. The absolute certainty that Crowley was about to say he regretted this or that it was a mistake held Aziraphale in a near panic state. Before Crowley could speak and confirm his fears, Aziraphale let his own words tumble out.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for the ‘surreal but charming’ comment. I promise that I’m usually much more eloquent, if no less awkward.”

Crowley smiled at that, a wide and beaming grin that settled the worst of Aziraphale’s nervous fears.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. If anything, the angel cake nonsense was the real lowpoint.” Crowley said, with the kind of gently teasing tone that Aziraphale thrived in.

He was about to retort when the unmistakable sound of a key in a lock interrupted them.

“Oh, goodness. My flatmate. I apologise in advance, truly.” Aziraphale babbled, tugging his shirt back into place.

Crowley lifted one eyebrow in question, looking mildly amused by Aziraphale’s performance as the door swung open and the bane of Aziraphale’s existence walked in, squeezing between the two of them. He was dressed like a low-level gangster from the 60s: fingerless gloves, neckerchief, a waxed barbour jacket, he even had a cigarette tucked behind one ear. Aziraphale tensed, awaiting the inevitable outburst.

“Hi,” said Shadwell, barely looking at either of them.

“Hi,” said Crowley, barely hiding his amusement as Aziraphale tried to shrink into nothingness.

“Hi,” Aziraphale mumbled, waiting for Shadwell to do something awful, or even just notice the tension his entrance had caused.

Shadwell carried on into the kitchen without a backwards glance, pulling open the fridge and rummaging around.

“I’ll just be gettin’ some food and then I got somethin’ ta tell ya that’ll make yer ancestors infertile!” Shadwell called from somewhere within the fridge.

Looking at Crowley’s expression of barely contained delight, Aziraphale mouthed a quick apology and waited, hoping to prolong this moment as much as possible, even if it meant sharing it with Shadwell.

“Probably best to not tell anyone about this, yeah?” Crowley asked, breaking Aziraphale’s hopes with a gentle nudge.

“Naturally,” he agreed, trying to ignore the screaming in his own head. “Who would believe me? I’m me and I already don’t believe it myself.”

He tried to smile as he reached for the door, holding it open once more. Crowley picked up his bags and pulled his glasses back down, pausing for the briefest moment to run a hand over his hair, taming the worst of the flyaways at his temples. As he left, he laid his hand over Aziraphale’s where it held the latch and gave the lightest squeeze. Aziraphale could still feel the pressure of it when Shadwell reappeared at the end of the hallway, holding a spoon and a jar of curry sauce.

“Reckon there’s somethin’ wrong with this peanut butter,” he said, scooping out another spoonful.

“It’s curry sauce,” Aziraphale offered, reluctant to move away from the door.

Shadwell nodded and sucked the spoon clean anyway.

* * *

For the next few days, Aziraphale can’t seem to escape Crowley. The music shop across the road put up life-size posters of The Demons, one in each of the windows, promoting their latest album. From Aziraphale’s seat at the counter of the bookshop, it felt as though the Crowley poster was staring right at him, sneering and daring him to want more than he’d been allowed. Sometimes, he wanted to rearrange the shop just so he didn’t have to see it all hours of the day. Other times he wanted to do nothing but gaze at it through the windows and remember every detail of the most extraordinary kiss of his life.

Newt must have noticed his change in mood, he was trying to be less prone to panic and more of a calming, reliable presence in the shop. In what Aziraphale assumed was an attempt at improving the atmosphere in the bookshop, Newt brought in a small speaker and tried to set it up to play a local radio station. After three hours of non-stop Demons tracks, Aziraphale had to ask Newt to kindly turn the thing off. That sort of malfunction shouldn’t have even been possible and yet the universe seemed determined to keep Crowley at the forefront of his thoughts for as long as possible.

Not, Aziraphale thought in his most private moments, that he needed any help. He had no idea how many times he should be allowed to relive those precious few minutes, but every quiet moment had him vividly recalling the touch of Crowley’s lips and the taste of his tongue. He’d stroked the spot on his neck that Crowley had held so often that the skin was becoming desensitised. It was starting to be something of an issue.

One evening, three days after the unspeakable incident, Aziraphale was in the flat and reading a book in the living room. Shadwell wandered in and flicked on the television before flopping onto the couch.

“Don’t you have a date tonight?” Aziraphale asked without looking up.

Shadwell groaned and rolled onto his front, muffling himself in a cushion. The show he’d put on came to an end and, because the universe wasn’t done tormenting Aziraphale yet, the music over the credits was by The Demons. He was reaching for the remote when Shadwell dragged himself to his elbows and gave an answer using real words.

“Aye, got a date with a delicious lookin’ lass. Cannae decide what t’wear.” Shadwell moaned as if the world was ending.

Aziraphale closed his book with one finger keeping his page and looked up at his dramatic flatmate.

“Surely you’ll do what you always do? Pick up whatever seems cleanest from the pile on your floor? Maybe pair it with whatever you can steal from my wardrobe that isn’t going to fall off you?” His tone wasn’t unkind but he was also not pulling his punches.

“Can I get yer opinion on some options?” Shadwell barrelled on, ignoring Aziraphale’s sniping.

He sprung up off the sofa and went to his room to grab whatever abominations he had deemed fit for his date. Moments later, he reappeared wearing a new shirt with several others balled up in his hands. Aziraphale screwed his nose up at the graphic print of a witch-burning woodcut on the first shirt.

“Not sure that sends a good message for the first date,” he said, diplomatically.

“Aye, aye, right.” Shadwell turned his back to change into the next shirt. “How’s this?”

He turned to reveal the text “Lance-Corporal Shadwell of the Witchfinder Army” written in bold text across his chest. Aziraphale sucked air between his teeth as he tried to phrase his response.

“It’s, ah, well. It does rather give the impression that you might have forgotten your own name,” Aziraphale tried, tactfully.

“Ah, I see yer point.” Shadwell tapped the side of his nose and pointed at Aziraphale although whatever he was trying to convey was totally lost on Aziraphale. He changed into another t-shirt, not bothering with any attempt at modesty this time.

Aziraphale read the large black text and started to nod. Across Shadwell’s chest were the words ‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the world’ which, while not something many could pull off, somehow, on Shadwell, it was rather sweet.

“Much better! That’s a lovely sentiment.” Aziraphale gave his full approval and a warm smile to top it off.

“A classic, this one. Aye, good choice.” Shadwell appeared satisfied.

As he turned to head back to his room and, presumably, dump the other shirts back on the floor, Aziraphale caught sight of the text on the back of the shirt and groaned. It read ‘How many nipples you got?’ and Aziraphale knew that he should have expected nothing less from the eccentric flatmate he’d been suffering for almost four years.

When Shadwell returned, now apparently ready to leave for his date, Aziraphale had turned the TV off and resumed reading. Upon looking up, Aziraphale had to admit that Shadwell cleaned up well enough, in a wrong-side-of-the-tracks kind of way. He opened his mouth to wish Shadwell well on his date but Shadwell beat him to the punch.

“Just remembered, you had a call coupl’a days ago. Fella named Anthony? Sounded a bit of a knob. Said he was at the Ritz and you should call ‘im.” Shadwell shrugged as if he hadn’t just blown Aziraphale’s world apart.

Aziraphale lunged for his phone, immediately looking up the number for the front desk at the Ritz hotel.

“Oh, ye cannae ask for Anthony, though. Said he was staying under a different name. Was all very dodgy if ye ask me.” Shadwell shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the kind of reprobate that might need to use an assumed name, even one that stayed at the Ritz.

“What was the name?!” Aziraphale snapped, his phone ringing in his ear.

“Some foreign nonsense, sounded like he had a bad cold.”

Someone had picked up the phone and Aziraphale didn’t have the name. His mind reeled and panicked.

“ _ Think!”  _ he hissed at Shadwell before addressing the man on the other end of the call. “Ah, hello. I’m returning a call from one of your guests but I’m afraid I don’t have the room number. I don’t suppose you’d be able to help me, would you?”

“Certainly, sir, I can do my best. What is the name of the guest?” Aziraphale spared a glance at Shadwell before answering, wanting to avoid the inevitable teasing if he got wind of who had called. He was still mumbling to himself, sounding out increasingly bizarre noises.

“Well, um, it’s Anthony Crowley.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have a guest of that name at this time.” The man was impressively polite without giving away the slightest clue.

“No, no, of course. He’s staying under a different name. It’s just that my complete pillock of a flatmate is functionally illiterate and terribly allergic to pens. He just won’t write down messages. He said it was foreign sounding?” Aziraphale winced at that, knowing how it might appear.

“I’m sorry, sir. I simply can’t help.”

“Try Farrokh Bulsara,” said Shadwell, suddenly.

Aziraphale gave Shadwell a frantic, questioning look only to get a shrug in response.

“Wait! He might be Farrokh Bulsara.” Aziraphale all but yelled, desperate to keep the call connected.

“Very good, sir. I’ll put you through right away.”

Punching the air with glee, Aziraphale turned to celebrate with Shadwell but all he got was a glimpse of the back of that awful t-shirt as Shadwell disappeared down the hall. The front door clicked shut behind him half a second before Crowley picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

Just the sound of his voice sent little electric shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. He took a moment to compose himself, as quickly as he possibly could.

“Hello, hi. It’s Aziraphale Fell, from the, uh, the bookshop?”

There was a silence that stretched just long enough for Aziraphale to regret every moment of his existence. He was on the verge of rushing an apology and hanging up when he heard the slight huff of a chuckle through the phone.

“You’ve played this very cool. Can’t say I’ve been kept waiting almost 3 days for a phone call in a long time,” Crowley sounded amused rather than angry and Aziraphale couldn’t believe his luck.

“Oh, no, I promise that’s not the case at all! My absolute disaster of a flatmate has only just passed on your message. There is not and has never been a single thing about me that could be described as cool.”

Crowley laughed again, louder this time. Relief flooded Aziraphale’s nervous system like cool water on sunburned skin. He allowed himself a private smile at being able to amuse this divine creature.

“I think I can take your word on that,” Crowley said, a smile still warming his voice. “Aziraphale, that’s quite the name. Tell me about it?”

“You’re one to talk, Farrokh.” Aziraphale aimed for playfully teasing and was delighted to earn another rumble of laughter. “My mother said it came to her in a dream before I was born. Of course, I’ve never been able to get a fridge magnet with my name on it.”

“I like it, it’s unique. And it suits you.” Crowley left the implication hanging.

Aziraphale could recognise the subtle invitation, the opening that he’d been left if only he could be brave enough to take it. He swallowed hard and screwed his eyes shut.

“Could I possibly be so forward as to invite you for dinner?” A beat of silence and Aziraphale began to panic. “Or lunch. Or just coffee, even? Anything, really, if you like.”

“Ah, if only you’d called sooner,” Crowley teased, sounding wistful. “My schedule is pure hell for the next few weeks.”

“I understand, of course,” Aziraphale tried not to sound too devastated as he struggled to hold the shards of his shattered hope together.

“Are you free at three tomorrow afternoon? Come by the hotel. I’d like to see you.”

“Yes! I mean, I am, yes. I would be delighted.” Aziraphale was too elated to worry about being over-eager or too keen. He’d walk through fire to get the chance to see Crowley again.

“Glad to hear it, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

With that, the call disconnected and Aziraphale was alone once again, his jaw hanging open in disbelief. He wanted to run into the street and scream his good fortune to the skies until the stars themselves vibrated with his joy, but that would be entirely inappropriate. Instead, he settled for an uncharacteristic dance around the kitchen while he waited for the kettle to boil. Aziraphale moved with more exuberance than he had in months, perhaps years.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale opted to walk to the Ritz, hoping that the air and exercise would help settle his nerves. He had been positively jumpy all morning, snapping at customers and pacing up and down the shop until Newt had begged him to sit down or go home. He was almost halfway there, just short of Piccadilly, when the panic really set in and he began to seriously consider cancelling the whole thing.

Stopping on a London pavement has never been a good idea and as soon as Aziraphale’s hesitancy translated into a loss of forward momentum, he was berated by no fewer than four fellow pedestrians and a cyclist. Ducking into the first open shop door to avoid any further castigation, Aziraphale leaned against a wall and began trying to calm his breathing.

“Can I help you?” A friendly voice called out.

Aziraphale took in his surroundings and groaned internally.  _ Of course, _ he thought spitefully,  _ of course I’d take refuge in a cake shop. _

“Just browsing, thank you,” he told the young woman behind the counter and went through the motions of examining the display of cakes.

The distraction seemed to work and Aziraphale soon worked through the worst of his anxiety. One decadent little cupcake kept catching his eye as he perused the display. It was a red velvet cake with a neat swirl of icing that was so dark it was almost black, on top sat a blood-red fondant rose with the edges of the petals picked out in gold. The handwritten sign beside it declared that the cupcake was the shop’s signature “Lovelorn Devil Cake” and that the cake featured dark chocolate and chilli flavours.

If nothing else, Aziraphale reasoned, carrying a cupcake would give him something to do with his hands and stop the near-constant wringing that had been occurring since he left the bookshop. A minute or so later, Aziraphale left the shop with the cupcake in a pretty little box and set off towards the Ritz once more. The world seemed a little brighter after the unscheduled stop, Aziraphale’s step was lighter for it.

Once at the hotel, he must have given the impression of a fish out of water as almost immediately he was approached by the concierge who directed him towards the lifts. A woman slipped between the closing doors at the last second, she looked about as nervous as Aziraphale felt so he offered her a little smile which she returned with tight lips. He watched her reach for the buttons but stop short of the floor he’d already selected, seeing it illuminated. They stood in silence for the rest of the brief journey, he fiddled with the ribbon on the cake box just as she fidgeted with the notepad in her hand.

The doors slid open and Aziraphale followed the signs for the Trafalgar Suite, his heartbeat growing more urgent with every step he took until it was all he could hear. The rhythmic beat took a sudden detour into a brisk staccato that almost had Aziraphale clutching his chest until he realised that the woman from the lift was knocking on the door of the Trafalgar suite.

“Oh,” he managed to say, apparently feeling especially eloquent.

She offered another tight, thin smile but didn’t respond. The door was yanked open by a harried-looking man in an ill-fitting suit who barely glanced at them. He grabbed two folders off the side table and thrust one into each of their hands before turning his back and walking away.

“It’s all gone to shit today, so you might have a bit of a wait. We’ll get you around everyone as quick as we can,” he called back over his shoulder to them both. Aziraphale scurried after him, keeping pace with the woman from the lift. “Take a seat here. There’s coffee and tea just here, if you can stand the filth that passes for coffee here. The heads are through that door, but try not to take too long, yeah?”

Aziraphale dropped into one of the chairs and looked at the folder in his hand. It was a publicity brief about The Demons’ new album; he balanced the cupcake box on his knees and flipped the folder open. It had a basic biography for each band member, some information on the inspiration behind the album, and a list of topics not to be discussed. Having felt somewhat out of his depth since stepping into the suite, Aziraphale slipped into a panic that felt much more like drowning.

“You brought one of them a cupcake?” The voice of the woman beside him broke through the surface like a lifering. Aziraphale grabbed at it gratefully.

“Oh, no. This is for my sister. It’s her birthday and, well, who knows how long these things might go on for.” Aziraphale lied far too easily, jerking his head towards the door at the end of the corridor, indicating the room he hoped Crowley would be in.

“Right, right. Might not wanna let Dagon see it, if you know what I mean!” The woman gave a suggestive wink that made Aziraphale’s skin crawl.

Eating disorders was on Dagon’s page of blacklisted topics. Aziraphale wanted to be away from this situation as soon as possible. Clearly, there had been some kind of misunderstanding and he should just leave. Just as he was gathering the courage to stand up and walk out, the flustered man came back and approached Aziraphale directly.

“You’re up. Didn’t catch the name of your publication, though?”

Aziraphale tried not to let the panic show on his face, even as he felt the blood drain from his cheeks and his eyes grow wide.

“Uh, yes, of course. My publication,” he hated to hear himself ramble like this. “It’s uh, Velocipede Monthly.”

The man gave a questioning look but scribbled something down on a label before slapping it onto Aziraphale’s jacket. Glancing down at it, Aziraphale suppressed a groan. That had better not leave a sticky mark, corduroy could be such a pig to clean.

“Right, this way, then.” The man walked off, clearly expecting Aziraphale to follow. They reached the door and the man pulled it open, ushering Aziraphale through ahead of him. “Writer from Velocipede Monthly for you, go easy on him, yeah? Looks about ready to keel over!”

A hand between the shoulder blades urged him to take a step forward into the light of the room beyond.

“Cheers, Hastur!” An unfamiliar voice called from somewhere in the room.

Aziraphale took a few faltering steps towards the chairs set up by the window and finally caught sight of the person who had spoken. He had been standing in the shadows, blending in with far too much ease, perhaps even lurking. At a loss for what else to do, Aziraphale gave a smile and sat in one of the Georgian style chairs. If nothing else, he wasn’t going to be intimidated into cowering and simpering before someone trying to unsettle him.

“Ah, Mr Ligur, would you come sit with me?” Aziraphale said brightly, using the folder to hide the cupcake on his lap.

Ligur huffed an amused little noise and crossed the room, dropping into one of the other chairs. Out of the shadows, he looked far less threatening, perhaps almost friendly.

“Just Ligur is fine,” he said with a grin that showed a mouthful of pearl-white teeth.

Aziraphale gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and said a quick prayer to whoever might be listening that he was a fast reader and well-versed in all manner of celebrity content. He fixed Ligur with his most winning smile and pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“How are you feeling about the album launch? It must be rather old hat for you, by now.” Aziraphale forced himself to relax as he spoke.

“Yeah, this is our sixth studio album so I’m a lot more used to the dog and pony show, I guess. Still excited to get the new stuff out there and see what the fans think, though. That’s the main thing.”

Aziraphale nodded and pretended to write in the folder.

“Of course, how would you describe the relationship that you have with the fans?” Aziraphale affected a thoughtful expression, pressing the top of the pen against his lips.

Ligur spread out in his chair a little more, casting his eyes at the ceiling.

“The fans are everything, right? I might just be the drummer, hiding at the back of the stage, but they’re the reason we do all of this. We don’t exist without them.” Ligur sounded distant and Aziraphale allowed himself to feel a little proud at provoking that response.

“Naturally. Now, talk me through your part in the creative process?”

Aziraphale carried on his charade quite well for the next 45 minutes, going on to meet with bassist Dagon, and then lead guitarist Beelzebub. He was rather pleased with the insightful questions that he’d managed to improvise as well as the deep well of insider gossip he was collecting. If nothing more, today would provide a delightful anecdote for many years to come.

Finally, the assistant, Hastur, ushered Aziraphale into the last room where Crowley sat, no,  _ lounged _ across an armchair. His legs were hanging over one arm and his head lolled back over the other side. All of the confidence and bluster that had carried Aziraphale through the past three interviews deserted him at once- his knees were weak at just the sight of Crowley’s casual pose.

“Hello,” he squeaked, his throat suddenly dry and tight.

Crowley lifted his head and jumped to his feet a half-second later.

“You came! Jesus, what time is it?” Crowley strode across the room to where Aziraphale stood and raised his hands like he wanted to clasp Aziraphale’s arms. He stopped short and dropped them to his sides again. “Sorry about this. It was supposed to have been finished hours ago but Bee overslept and we’ve been playing catch up ever since.” He apologised so genuinely that Aziraphale couldn’t hold any of this against him.

“I, uh, well. I got you this,” Aziraphale held up the cupcake with one hand.

Crowley lifted his ubiquitous sunglasses to take a better look at the offering and Aziraphale took the opportunity to lose himself in the almost golden eyes the action revealed.

“That’s so sweet of you. Thank you, really,” Crowley took the cupcake and then noticed the folder in Aziraphale’s other hand. “Wait, wait, have they had you doing interviews?”

Aziraphale tried to laugh and shrug off the question as if this was the sort of normal misunderstanding that people find themselves in every day.

“Fuck, Aziraphale, I’m mortified. This is all on me, I’m sorry.” Crowley really did look apologetic but Aziraphale had barely heard a word after realising that Crowley had remembered his name.

Crowley ushered Aziraphale over to the couch and sat beside him, putting the cupcake on the coffee table and opening the box so it folded out flat. He pulled a petal off the fondant rose and placed it on his tongue as Aziraphale watched, trying to remember how to form words.

“Ah, it’s been rather fun,” he said at last, straightening his spine and fighting to regain a modicum of composure. “Something to tell at dinner parties, at least!”

Crowley smiled, his teeth tinged pink from the fondant.

“Who did you even say you wrote for? You must have blagged this really well,” Crowley asked, sounding mildly impressed.

Aziraphale groaned and hid his face in his hands as he answered as quietly as possible.

“No, come on. I want to know!” Crowley nudged Aziraphale with one sharp elbow.

“Velocipede Monthly,” he answered sullenly.

Crowley exploded into laughter, holding his sides as though he might burst with the power of it. Aziraphale couldn’t work out if he was being mocked and rather feared that he was. Quiet men like him didn’t get to make gods like Crowley laugh in this way without being the butt of the joke. He stiffened and edged away, unwilling to be part of any game that Crowley was playing with him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley gasped, patting Aziraphale’s knee haphazardly. “I’m not laughing at you, honestly. I’m picturing Hastur’s face when he tries to reconcile his list with the publicist. He’s gonna lose his shit!” Mollified, Aziraphale allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the mental image while Crowley wiped tears from his eyes. “Seriously, I’m impressed. Can’t think of many people who’d go through all that, let alone get away with it.”

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s gaze on his face but couldn’t quite bring himself to meet it, he was still too raw and out of sorts to open himself up like that.

“Yes, well, it’s done now. A story for the grandkids, as they say.” Aziraphale smiled weakly, wondering what further twists and turns this day might hold.

“Look, I asked you here because I wanted to make sure that you were OK with everything that happened the other day. I know I can move pretty fast and, well,” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and looked sheepish, “I didn’t want to leave you with a bad impression. Of me, I mean.”

Aziraphale finally met Crowley’s eyes and felt the breath catch in his chest at the unguarded expression he was faced with. Crowley looked as sincere and hopeful as Aziraphale had ever seen someone look.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale breathed, barely hearing his own voice. “You left a very positive impression, very positive indeed.”

Crowley’s hand had settled on Aziraphale’s knee some time ago but now he squeezed gently and moved with a calculated slowness. His other hand cupped Aziraphale’s cheek and stroked across his cheekbone with infinite tenderness.

“Can I kiss you again?” Crowley asked, sounding as hopeful as Aziraphale felt.

“Please,” Aziraphale answered in a whisper.

Crowley’s lips were warm and soft, comforting and exciting all at once. Aziraphale was struck by the knowledge that his memory of the kiss in his hallway was already a hollow shell of the actual experience. No memory of Crowley could ever live up to the reality of having him so close. Parting his lips, Aziraphale invited Crowley to deepen the kiss as his hands finally settled on Crowley’s sides, touching him in a way that felt just the right side of forbidden. When the velvet touch of Crowley’s tongue came, it brought the lingering sweetness of fondant and a rush of heat straight to Aziraphale’s groin.

He heard Crowley moan and felt the vibration of it against his lips just a split second before a knock at the door had them springing apart like teenagers about to be caught by a disapproving parent. Aziraphale had to laugh at the reaction, knowing that he was as responsible for it as Crowley had been. For his part, Crowley was grinning wickedly and licking his lips. He reached one long arm over towards Aziraphale and swiped his thumb along Aziraphale’s bottom lip.

“Looks like this red gets everywhere,” he explained, holding up his pink-tinged thumb as evidence. “Come in!”

The door opened and Hastur stuck his scruffy head around it.

“Time’s up, you got one more to see and then this whole nightmare is over.”

Crowley looked thoughtful and Aziraphale felt himself being examined by both men. He started to stand, gathering himself together and patting his pockets to check for his belongings.

“I think we can do one more question here, Hastur. We’ll be quick.” Crowley’s tone left no doubt about whether he was asking or telling how it would be.

Hastur nodded and then stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Alarmed, Aziraphale looked at Crowley so as to follow his lead. Crowley only gave an exaggerated look of comic panic and slipped his sunglasses back down over his eyes.

“Right, yes, one last question. Well, can our readers expect any songs about bicycles in the new release?” Aziraphale’s stomach curled in a tight, internal cringe as he asked.

One eyebrow rose over the rim of Crowley’s sunglasses and his mouth twisted in amusement. Across the room, Hastur scoffed and made no attempt to be subtle about it.

“I really think that Queen covered all that could be said in  _ Bicycle Race _ and to try our own take on the topic would be derivative.” Crowley made the answer sound so reasonable that Aziraphale felt his mouth open in surprise.

“Well, thank you for your time. And, of course, best of luck with the new album.” Aziraphale stood and offered his hand to Crowley who took it in both of his.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, discreetly stroking the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

Just before they broke apart, Crowley mouthed an apology and pulled a dramatic sad face which made Aziraphale giggle. Hastur’s patience had already been tested enough and he herded Aziraphale out of the room in short order.

Outside the door, the woman from the lift stood waiting with her notepad held against her chest. She gave Aziraphale an appraising look and chewed her lower lip. Hastur ducked back into Crowley’s room to see if he was ready, leaving them alone in the hallway briefly.

“How was he? I’ve heard he can be a bit prickly with the press,” she asked, betraying her nerves.

“Delightful. Heaven on Earth, truly.” Aziraphale beamed as he answered.

“Looks like he took your sister’s cupcake though,” she tutted her disapproval.

Aziraphale looked down at his empty hands, having tucked the press folder under one arm. He scrambled for an appropriate reaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he huffed. “What a bastard.”

The door opened once more and Hastur ushered the woman through. Aziraphale turned to leave, prepared to chalk the day up as a bizarre, if exciting, dead end. Despite a second kiss, he knew that he wasn’t the type of man that Crowley would pursue. Too fussy, too stuffy, too boring, too old. He’d been a distraction at best, and he could make his peace with that. It wasn’t like he’d had his heart broken, after all.

“Oi, Velocipede fella!” Hastur called from behind him.

Aziraphale turned, wondering what he could possibly have left behind.

“Yes?”

“If you don’t have to run off, Crowley’d like to talk to you again afterwards. Hang about here for a bit, yeah?” Hastur passed on his message with all the enthusiasm of a petulant toddler. “Like this whole day hasn’t gone on long enough already,” he muttered as he passed Aziraphale in the hall.

Even the foul mood of the unpleasant man couldn’t dampen the burst of joy that flooded Aziraphale’s entire being. He tried to tell himself that it was likely just to make sure that he wouldn’t go blabbing to the papers or trying to sell his story, but the spark couldn’t be extinguished. Crowley wanted to see him again, and this wild adventure wasn’t over yet.

Presently, Hastur returned and brought Crowley’s last interview to an end. The woman left the room, babbling praise and gratitude over her shoulder until she was well past Aziraphale.

“Is he still here?” Crowley’s voice was barely audible from where Aziraphale stood but he still heard the hope in it.

“Yeah, he’s here. I’m going to get this fucking circus cleaned up. I don’t care what you do now.” Hastur’s voice got closer until he was in the doorway, waving Aziraphale back into the room.

“Hello again,” Aziraphale said once the door had closed behind him.

He wasn’t confident enough to sit beside Crowley again, or even to close the physical distance between them. There were too many rules that he didn’t know, too many ways that he could break whatever spell they were under. Crowley had shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes since Aziraphale had last seen him, this had the effect of making him seem softer, more human somehow. Aziraphale could barely breathe with the beauty of him.

“Hi, wanted to say sorry.” Crowley winced at his own words and looked at Aziraphale with one cautious eye. “Again, I suppose. You astound me, really, and I’d like to get to know you better. If you want to?”

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting his mouth to make anything close to a human sound in response to that. Despite his excellent impression of a particularly dimwitted goldfish, Crowley grinned at him in open delight.

“Can I tempt you to dinner tonight?” The fact that Crowley sounded hopeful rather than the cocksure confidence that Aziraphale had expected was disarming.

“Yes, definitely. I’d love to,” Aziraphale said, beaming at the prospect. The cupcake on the table caught his eye and turned his insides into ice. “Oh, bother. Drat.” Aziraphale hid his face in his hands and groaned before explaining. “It’s my sister’s birthday, we’re all having dinner at a friend’s place tonight. Sort of a little birthday party for her. I’m sorry.”

“Alright,” Crowley said with a little shrug.

“I’ll call off, or, or have two dinners, or anything you like. Really.”

“No, I mean it’s alright. I’ll come with you, be your date. If it’s alright with you?” Crowley offered, now seeming confident of Aziraphale’s acceptance.

“Are you sure? The food’ll be awful and my friends can be difficult, eccentric even,” Aziraphale trailed off, knitting his fingers together in a display of anxiety.

Crowley stood up from the sofa and approached Aziraphale as though he were a flighty animal that needed a gentle hand. One cool, elegant hand rested on top of Aziraphale’s fidgeting fingers and stilled them.

“I’m sure. I never get to do this stuff, it’ll be novel for me at the very least.” Crowley was almost pleading in his insistence and Aziraphale found himself nodding.

“Yes, of course, yes.” Aziraphale extracted one of his hands from Crowley’s loose grip and fished his phone out of his pocket.

He sent a quick text to the group and got an almost immediate response of enthusiasm and mocking disbelief that he’d found anyone willing to consider themselves his date. Crowley must have been looking over the top of the phone because he snorted a laugh and grinned with unconcealed mischief.

“Don’t tell them who you’re bringing, yeah? Let’s have some fun.”

Again, Aziraphale found himself nodding in agreement without really understanding why. Something about being near Crowley was bringing out the daredevil in him, his friends would forgive a little misdirection and good-natured subterfuge. It wasn’t like they’d believe him if he told them who his date was anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone reading and commenting so far. I'm delighted that you're enjoying this daft story! I do hope you have fun meeting Aziraphale's friends!

Aziraphale had a little less than two hours to get home from the Ritz and sort himself out for the evening. He had planned on a quick shower, a fresh shave, and ironing one of his more fashionable shirts but now that Crowley was going to accompany him, the plan seemed insufficient. He hurried home, still feeling the phantom of Crowley’s parting kiss on his cheek as he strode back down Piccadilly towards Soho.

Although his phone was threatening to vibrate itself to pieces with the number of chat notifications he was getting, Aziraphale ignored it and set about getting ready for the most bizarre evening of his life. Fitting, really, that it should follow the most unbelievable day he’d ever had. If the trend continued, Aziraphale would be discovering aliens or secret Tibetan tunnels by the end of the month.

Once he was freshly showered and shaved, he set about the very serious business of choosing an outfit for the night. The date. Crowley had called it a date, hadn’t he? Well, called himself Aziraphale’s date and that had to count for something.

After pratting about in just a towel for far too long, Aziraphale settled on a fawn-coloured pair of trousers and a subtly patterned shirt in dark blue. Feeling uncharacteristically brave, he picked out some deep red suspenders and a matching bow tie. He was just perfecting the knot at his throat when his phone started to ring, letting him know that his taxi was waiting outside. He grabbed his jacket and his phone and rushed out of the flat with little more than a hasty goodbye shouted at Shadwell.

Crowley was waiting at one end of the Ritz colonnade when the taxi pulled up, leaning against a pillar and looking effortlessly cool in his all-black outfit. His shoulder-length hair shone like deep copper in the fading light, the top half sectioned into a neat bun and the rest falling in loose waves. Commuters coming out of the Green Park station parted around him without looking up and Aziraphale privately thought that they were all missing out on a sight that could rival the greatest masterpieces.

He opened the door and stepped out, holding it for Crowley to climb in. If Aziraphale took the opportunity to get a lingering look at Crowley’s arse with minimal risk of awkwardness, well that was his business alone.

“You look lovely,” Aziraphale said as he settled back into the cab.

“So do you,” Crowley responded, his voice a gentle murmur.

They sat in silence for the first minute or so but it wasn’t a long journey and Aziraphale had something rather pressing on his mind. He worked up the courage to broach the subject.

“I, uh, I was wondering something,” he said at last. Crowley gave him a questioning look but didn’t interrupt. “What should I be calling you?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline in surprise.

“Ha! A couple of kisses and you want to know if you’re my boyfriend?” Crowley leaned away from Aziraphale, rather more stiffly than he’d been a moment before.

“Oh! Goodness, no, sorry. No, not that!” Aziraphale tripped over his own tongue in his eagerness to clarify his meaning. “I only meant, well, is it Anthony or Crowley or something else entirely? What name do you like to be called by friends?”

Crowley relaxed and laughed in a charmingly self-conscious manner. A blush of embarrassment coloured his cheeks and Aziraphale wanted to kiss him so very badly.

“That is a sensible sort of question. Crowley is fine, prefer it really. Anthony sounds so bloody posh, never liked it.”

Aziraphale nodded and felt the pounding in his chest settle back into something less likely to kill him.

“Crowley it is, then.”

The taxi pulled over in front of a row of terraced brick houses and Aziraphale paid the fare, managing to complete the simple transaction without making a tit of himself. Standing on the pavement beside Crowley and looking up at his friends’ home, Aziraphale wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He’d never hear the end of this from any of them, so it was better just to get it over with, he decided. Crowley followed him up the ramp to the front door and stood in silence as Aziraphale pressed the doorbell and they waited for an answer.

There was some shuffling and something called across the house that conveyed a frantic tone if none of the content. Crowley gave Aziraphale a sideways glance that was endearingly nervous just as the door was pulled open by Leslie who didn’t so much as glance at them before barrelling back into the house. He held a tray of potatoes in one hand and a tea towel in the other.

“Hello, yes, make yourselves at home. I’m dealing with a crisis!”

Aziraphale stepped across the threshold and gave Crowley the most reassuring look he knew how to give.

“That’s Leslie. Lovely man, terrible cook. I should have warned you about that.” Aziraphale grimaced comically which got him a quiet laugh.

Aziraphale led the way into the living room, finding Maud opening a bottle of wine and looking mildly frazzled.

“Oh, hello Aziraphale! Glass of wine?” She offered, showing him the label. Crowley stepped out from behind Aziraphale and raised a hand in greeting. “Good lord! You’re the spitting image-”

“Maud, this is Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted her. “Crowley, this is my dear friend Maud.”

Crowley extended his hand towards Maud and she took it, her lips slightly parted in surprise.

“Lovely to meet you, Maud. Thank you for allowing me to intrude at such short notice,” Crowley said with such a winning smile that all the tension melted away.

“You’re very welcome, of course.”

Crowley reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a bottle of wine with a ribbon tied around the neck.

“I wasn’t sure of the menu, so don’t feel like you have to open it tonight,” Crowley blew Aziraphale away with his graciousness and good manners.

He had no reason to expect any different, but the rock star persona and tabloid coverage hadn’t prepared him for this gentle, domestic side of Crowley. Maud set the wine on the table, poured them each a glass of the bottle she’d been opening when they’d entered, and then wheeled her chair over to a cabinet where she set Crowley’s gift.

Leslie appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on the tea towel and then slinging it over his shoulder.

“Aziraphale! Good to see you!” Leslie hugged Aziraphale tightly before turning to address Crowley. “And who’s the young man you’ve press-ganged into being your date?”

Crowley turned to face Leslie more fully, smiling and reaching out a hand.

“Leslie, this is Crowley. I can’t vouch for how much press-ganging was involved on either side.” Aziraphale winked at Maud who was hiding behind her wine glass and waiting for Leslie to realise who he was shaking hands with.

“Crowley, goodness. Anthony Crowley. Hello. Wine? Oh, you’ve got some. Ha ha, right.” Leslie’s face underwent a series of transformations as he spoke, each layer of realisation hitting him in sequence.

Crowley squeezed his hand and smiled that gentle, winning smile once more. It worked like magic.

“Just Crowley is fine, it’s lovely to meet you, Leslie.”

Before things could settle between them, the doorbell rang again in a rapid triple tone. Aziraphale recognised the signature ring of his little sister and gritted his teeth.

“Let me go, I’ll get it,” he said, standing up from the sofa and heading into the hallway.

He threw open the door and caught Tracy’s leaping hug as she flew at him and squealed.

“Azzy!” she cried, ignoring Aziraphale’s groan at the nickname. “Do you like my dress?”

She pulled away to let him have a good look at her explosion of rainbow chiffon and sequins.

“Very pretty. Happy birthday, Tracy.” Aziraphale gave her a kiss on the cheek and drew her into the hallway, closing the door behind them both.

Before he could say another word, she scrambled away from him to stand in the living room doorway and strike a pose in her fancy dress. Watching her, Aziraphale could pinpoint the moment that she spotted and recognised Crowley. He followed her into the room, prepared to act as a buffer between them as needed.

“Wow, you’re Crowley, aren’t you?” She asked, sounding a touch awestruck.

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale ducked in between them.

“Crowley, this is my baby sister, Tracy. Tracy, this is Crowley, the friend I said I was bringing.”

Tracy’s eyes doubled in size as she looked between the two men. Maud pressed a glass of wine into her hand and Tracy took a large swallow before sitting down in a cloud of tulle and chiffon. Crowley sat beside her and looked reasonably relaxed, as much as anyone in a house full of strangers might look. Aziraphale forced himself to let go of some of the tension he was holding and sat in an armchair beside Maud. Neither made any pretence of not watching Tracy and Crowley.

“You know,” Tracy began carefully, holding her wineglass in both hands and staring into it, “For the longest time I’ve been certain that, were we ever to meet, we’d just become best friends. I know it’s silly, but that’s just the feeling I had.”

Crowley patted the back of one of her hands in a friendly manner.

“I completely see why you’d feel that way. I can tell right away that you’re just my kind of person.”

Tracy brightened immediately and looked Crowley in the face just as Aziraphale’s heart performed a complicated backflip in his chest, warmth flooding his entire body at the sight of Crowley treating his eccentric sister with genuine kindness. The evening was already going far better than he could have ever dreamt.

Tracy was entertaining them all with a story involving a tarot reading she did for a very fussy customer who would not accept anything the cards said when the doorbell rang once more. Leslie went to open it and an almost hysterical anticipation settled over the group, waiting to see how the newcomer would react to Crowley. From Aziraphale’s vantage, it even seemed as though Crowley was sharing the mood.

Arthur bustled into the room, dropping his briefcase beside the sofa and shrugging out of his suit jacket. Leslie hovered in the doorway, keen to see the reaction as well.

“Sorry I’m late, all. Terrible traffic and meetings that ran over, that sort of thing. Happy birthday, Tracy!” Arthur dropped a kiss into Tracy’s upturned cheek and jumped straight back into his monologue. “You look lovely as always. Maud, darling, you’re radiant. Aziraphale, hello where’s this fella then?”

Crowley raised a hand in a hint of a wave.

“Arthur, this is Crowley. Crowley, this is the city’s worst trader, Arthur.” Aziraphale made his introductions and held his breath.

Arthur leaned across Tracy to shake Crowley’s hand and chuckled at the look of mild shock on his face.

“It’s true, I absolutely am the worst trader in the city, if not the world. No idea what I’m doing!”

Crowley smiled and nodded.

“Well, nice to meet you all the same.”

The tension reached a breaking point and Tracy looked to be on the verge of a serious attack of the giggles, but Arthur was oblivious. He went to hang up his jacket in the hall and called through.

“What’s for dinner, anyway?”

The group all exchanged incredulous glances, Aziraphale was entirely at a loss for what to do, but Crowley saved them all with a gigantic grin and a loud sip of wine.

“That doesn’t happen often,” he said, dissolving the nervous energy that had been building.

Maud giggled, Tracy hid behind her hands, Leslie scurried off to the kitchen, and Aziraphale gazed at Crowley in open adoration. If there had ever been any doubt about how very special Crowley was, none could linger now. Aziraphale had never felt so lucky.

Before Arthur wandered back in, Crowley pulled a small, well-wrapped gift from his bag and pressed it into Tracy’s hands.

“Happy birthday. Sorry, it’s a bit narcissistic as gifts go, but I didn’t have a great deal of time to shop.” Crowley apologised even as Tracy tore into the paper and gasped at the contents.

“Are you kidding me? This isn’t even out for another week!” Tracy gasped, turning the CD case over in her hands.

“I know no one really buys CDs any more, but it’s impossible to sign a Spotify playlist or iTunes download. I hope it’s alright.”

Tracy was staring at the case, running her fingertip over four distinct autographs. Aziraphale could barely watch, his heart was so full already. Maud gripped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, letting him know that she understood the importance of the moment, that he wasn’t alone in it.

“Thank you so much, really. I love it. I love you. Marry Aziraphale immediately, please, I need you to be my brother-in-law!”

Maud’s hand tightened on Aziraphale’s at that, mirroring the flash of panic he felt. How was he supposed to play this with any amount of cool when his sister was over there proposing on his behalf?

With the good humour that Aziraphale was coming to associate with Crowley, he laughed and gave Tracy a hug.

“Can’t make any promises there,” he answered cooly.

Leslie announced that dinner was ready whether they wanted it or not, and the group relocated to the dining table where Maud wheeled around and topped up their wine glasses, winking to Crowley that a bit of a buzz really helped the food seem edible.

Dinner was carried by lively conversation, hilarious anecdotes, and the comfortable nonsense that existed around a group of people at ease with themselves. Tracy offered to read Crowley’s palm and declared that his love line indicated that soon the success that he had in other areas of his life would be shared in his love life too. Aziraphale kicked her under the table in retaliation.

Several glasses of wine in, Arthur became a touch maudlin and began complaining about his life.

“The money’s good, y’know?” He said to the table at large, “But I have no idea what I’m doing half the time, and the other half of the time I’m just hiding from my bosses.” He took another swallow of wine and grimaced. “You, Crowley, what do you do for a living?”

Aziraphale saw the way that everyone around the table subtly perked up, suddenly more interested in the direction Arthur was meandering.

“I’m a musician,” Crowley said simply.

“Do you love it? Does it fulfil you? Is it what you dreamed of doing when you were a kid?” Arthur got progressively more sullen with each question.

“I do, it does. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Crowley acknowledged with a sly smile.

“See!” Arthur exclaimed, almost knocking over Tracy’s glass in his outburst. “There’s no money in music, I got friends who are barely scraping by and playing shows every night, but they love it. That’s important.” Arthur rallied as if he were about to make a point but then it fled and he looked at Crowley again. “You tour? Do live shows?”

Crowley nodded.

“Spent most of last year touring, yeah.”

“And, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you make from all that touring last year?” Arthur asked smugly, certain of his triumph.

“£14.5 million, just from the tour.”

Arthur sank into himself and a giggle ran around the table although no one would have claimed it if asked.

“Oh, I see. Doing alright, then.”

Taking pity on his friend, Aziraphale eyed the plate in the centre of the table and the lone slice of chocolate brioche sitting on it.

“One slice left, any objections if I…?” He reached for the slice only for Leslie to smack his hand away.

“Absolutely not, Aziraphale. We’ve all just heard Arthur’s woes, I think I can only let this brioche go to the saddest, most pathetic one of the party. I will hear your cases.”

Tracy stood up to address them, brushing down her skirts as she did so.

“Arthur, you know I love you but I can’t let you have the brioche. You earn far too much money to be that miserable whereas I get practically nothing, reading palms and cards for horrible tourists. My hair is so awful that I constantly wear wigs, which make my real hair even worse,” she lifted the front of her wig to show the damp, frizzy hair underneath, “and now I’m past the age where anyone will ever think of me as sexy again.”

She sat back down and made doe eyes at Leslie. Beside him, Maud snorted.

“On the other hand, your best friend  _ is _ Anthony Crowley,” Maud pointed out.

“Ah, that is true. I’m indispensable to him.” Tracy gives an indulgent smile before laughing aloud.

“Wait,  _ Anthony Crowley?” _ Arthur gasped, suddenly looking Crowley in the face with renewed interest.

Crowley waved as he had when they’d met and Arthur buried his face in his hands, sliding down his chair until he was barely visible above the table.

“And most of your limbs work,” Maud continued, gamely covering for Arthur’s distress. “unlike mine. Everywhere I go, people talk down to me like I’m a child, and my upper body is getting so buff that I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe. On top of that, we just found out that I can’t get pregnant.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop at the news; instinctively, he reached across the table to squeeze Maud’s hand in sympathy. Arthur made noises of disbelief and horror while Tracy moved around the table to give Maud a tight hug.

“But we have each other,” Maud rallied, wiping an errant tear from her eye, “and so many other things to be thankful for. I do think that’s worth the brioche, though.”

Leslie nodded, looking thoughtful.

“Perhaps, if Aziraphale weren’t here. I mean, look at him. Struggling bookshop in an increasingly digital world, depressingly single since  _ he _ walked out, used to be good-looking but is definitely rather soft now, and will likely never hear from Crowley again after tonight on account of his awful taste in friends!”

Aziraphale laughed, knowing better than to take offence. Reassuringly, he heard Crowley’s laughter joining in.

“So, the brioche is mine after all?” Aziraphale asked and Leslie pushed the plate towards him.

“Don’t I get a shot?” Crowley interjected.

“You think you can beat my claim to the brioche?”

“I think I should at least be allowed to try!” Crowley insisted with a grin.

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair and gestured for Crowley to make his pitch.

“Well, I haven’t spent more than a week in the same place for over a decade. Nowhere feels like home to me any more,” Crowley began gently, “Due to being young and dumb when I signed with a label, I don’t own the rights to most of my work and have been fighting to protect my legacy. I live in the constant fear that one day my voice will fail, or the fans will abandon us, or that I’m clinging to whatever sex appeal and talent I once had and no one has bothered to tell me that I’m a joke yet.” His bottom lip quivered almost imperceptibly, but Aziraphale saw and desperately wanted to hold him.

“Oh,” said Arthur, blinking rapidly.

Everyone else sat in stunned silence for a moment or two, absorbing Crowley’s admission.

“Nice try, Crowley. But you’re not fooling anyone!” Leslie announced at last and pushed the plate towards Aziraphale.

“Worth a shot!” Crowley grinned, shaking off his sad expression.

Aziraphale split the brioche with him anyway.

Finally, Aziraphale felt that he had subjected Crowley to enough of his social group and their oddities and started to make their excuses. Crowley was gracious and warm in his goodbyes; Aziraphale found himself distracted more than once by the sight of Crowley hugging someone as if they had been friends for years, all of the prickly distance that he exuded in public had been put away.

Waving a last farewell at the group huddled around the front door, Aziraphale pulled it closed behind him and stepped down the ramp towards Crowley. The distance and the closed door did little to disguise the roaring howls of laughter that erupted from inside the house. Startled, Crowley looked at Aziraphale with wide eyes.

“Oh, it’s alright. They always do that when I leave the house.” Aziraphale made a joke of it, out of himself, and earned a smile from Crowley as a result.

“Awful friends, you have. Just terrible.” Crowley nudged him with an elbow as he teased.

“Do you want to get a cab?” Aziraphale asked, looking up and down the street for anything he could flag down.

“I’d like to walk, actually. It’s a nice night.” Crowley said simply and moved a touch closer to Aziraphale.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Aziraphale made a conscious effort to keep his hands at his sides instead of tucking them into his pockets or clasping them behind his back. Just in case Crowley felt like holding his hand. He’d be available.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is a CHONKY BOI so editing is gonna take a bit. Scream at me in the comments in the mean time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. I hope you enjoy it!

The route they took through the winding side streets of London was less direct and more a meandering saunter in the vague direction of the Ritz. Aziraphale found that he didn’t mind in the slightest, he was in no hurry to end their evening.

“I like your friends,” Crowley said after a brief pause. “They know how to laugh at themselves. Everyone I know seems to take everything so very seriously.”

Aziraphale nodded and hummed in agreement, trying not to think about the names that Crowley could drop in such a conversation.

“Why is Maud in a wheelchair?” Crowley asked, giving Aziraphale’s face a nervous sideways glance.

“Ooph,” Aziraphale exhaled loudly, gearing himself up for the flood of unhappy memories. “She was in an accident about two years ago. Someone ran a red light and hit her as she was crossing the road.”

He clenched his fists at his sides, focusing on the feeling of his nails digging into his palms and ignoring the phantom sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of the machines, too-sweet tea from kindly nurses, holding Leslie and sobbing together when Maud had first been wheeled out of theatre with tubes and bandages covering so much of her bruised face. Two years later and Aziraphale still found himself back in that room with the plastic furniture and unspoken fears.

Cool fingers curled around his tight fist, easing it open and soothing the tension.

“I’m sorry, that must have been very painful for you all,” Crowley said as he laced his fingers between Aziraphale’s. “I didn’t mean to bring up this hurt.”

Aziraphale let himself relax and flex his fingers around Crowley’s hand, marvelling at how well it fit against his own.

“It’s alright, no harm done,” he said with a smile meant only for Crowley. “Shall we walk through the park?”

They had reached the northernmost corner of St James’s Park, having wandered past the Duke of York column and turned their backs to Horse Guards. It would take a little longer to walk through the park than just head straight down The Mall and Aziraphale really didn’t want to hurry towards their destination. He could only hope that Crowley felt the same, ignoring all of the very tangible evidence that Crowley was giving to show his feelings.

“Yeah, sounds fun,” Crowley responded, giving Aziraphale’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Never been in any of the Royal Parks at night. Feels a bit forbidden, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale laughed at the absurdity of the idea that something as mundane as a London park after dark could be considered forbidden. Crowley looked so eager for a spot of silliness that Aziraphale was soon laughing for a different reason, being dragged into the park by the hand that Crowley wouldn’t let go of.

One of the benefits of the park was the ability to stop and kiss in peace. Crowley was so enthusiastic in his pursuit of Aziraphale’s kisses that soon Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was more affected by the wine from dinner or the lack of oxygen going to his brain. The giggling, bright-eyed, vision of masculine beauty before him appeared to be just as affected. There was no denying that this particular realisation was doing things to Aziraphale’s body.

Crowley slumped onto a bench, arranging his limbs in an effortless grace that put Aziraphale in mind of ballet dancers and birds in flight. He watched, looking at Crowley just because he was allowed to.

“I always heard that these parks were used for all kinds clandestine meetings, like, Russian spies exchanging messages with their shoelaces and stuff,” Crowley moved along the bench, sitting uncharacteristically stiff and upright. “You are Midnight Dolphin?” He affected a poor Russian accent and barely kept a straight face.

Aziraphale sat on the next bench along, as close to Crowley’s bench as he could get, whilst fighting his own attack of the giggles.

“I have the documents, Fallen Angel. Vat is passverd?” Aziraphale’s Russian accent was worse than Crowley’s had been and left both men gasping for breath.

“Password is, ah,” Crowley paused, chewing on his lip in thought, “Swan!”

“Imposter! I must report you to the Kremlin at once!” Aziraphale gasped with the effort of controlling his laughter.

“No, Aziraphale, swan! Look!” Crowley pointed past Aziraphale to where a swan was marching up to them. “Must have a noise complaint!” He doubled over in a fit of hysterics which only appeared to anger the swan further.

It spread its wings and hissed at Aziraphale, far more threatening than it should be for a creature of its size. Aziraphale climbed up onto the bench, tucking his feet under himself to get away from the bird.

“Shoo!” He waved a hand at it which earned him a renewed hiss and a frantic flap of great white wings.

In a panic, Aziraphale tried to stand and climb over the back of the bench, tripping over his own feet instead. He landed on the grass behind the bench in an untidy pile, feeling the damp of the earth seeping into the knees of his trousers. The swan, apparently appeased by this obvious gesture of submission, waddled back to the lake and hopped in without a backwards glance.

“Fuck, Aziraphale! Are you alright?” Crowley rushed to his side, sounding genuinely concerned for Aziraphale’s well-being.

“Oh yes, just tickety-boo,” Aziraphale said as he stood, brushing grass and leaf litter from his clothing whilst trying to focus on how his name had sounded on Crowley’s worried tongue.

“What?” Crowley shook his head. “Did you just say ‘tickety-boo’?”

“No? Of course not,” Aziraphale patted himself down as if his dignity was simply misplaced in a pocket. “Poor dear, you must be hearing things.”

“Obviously,” Crowley said with a bite of mockery in his tone.

In the orange glow of the lampposts, Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley would be able to see the embarrassed blush that coloured his cheeks. Still, to be sure, he ducked his head and looked away. He was already an old-fashioned sort of person, fussy and particular, he was certain that whatever novelty he held for Crowley would wear off soon enough. He didn’t want to hasten the inevitable, not while he had this impossible opportunity to touch heaven itself.

“You alright there, Aziraphale?” Crowley gently lifted his head, guiding him with two fingers under his chin. “Looked like you got a bit lost in your thoughts.”

Crowley kissed him before he could answer, suffocating the second mortifying utterance of “tickety-boo” before it could escape his throat. For the duration of the kiss, Aziraphale managed to forget the temporary insanity of his life and allowed himself to just be a man kissing and being kissed in a park.

“I should stop doing that so much,” Crowley said, somewhat breathless, after pulling away. His forehead rested against Aziraphale’s, keeping him close. 

“Why?”

“I like it too much, it’s dangerous. I shouldn’t like it so much.” 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to explain, even pulled back to shoot a questioning look, but no clarification came. Just a hug that seemed almost melancholy in its atmosphere. They didn’t return to playing at being secret agents, but Crowley did take Aziraphale’s hand for the remainder of the walk, passing Buckingham Palace with a joke about identifying well with a tired, old Queen, and walking up through Green Park to the corner by the Ritz. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers and separated their hands with a regretful pout.

“How lon- I mean, are you free again later this week?” Aziraphale asked, aiming for casual and at least missing desperate. “I’d like to take you out properly, if I may.”

Crowley smiled and pulled his phone out of his pocket to thumb through his calendar. He hummed, thoughtful, a frown momentarily creasing his brow. Aziraphale wondered how Crowley would react if he were to reach up and smooth it away.

“Day after tomorrow, seven pm, would that work?” Crowley asked, although Aziraphale could see that his calendar was full.

“Oh, yes! Wonderfully,” Aziraphale said, surprised. “Do you happen to like sushi?”

“As it happens, I do. You’ve got my number, now. Text me the details?” Crowley stuffed his phone back into his pocket and grinned, stunning Aziraphale into silence. “And thank you for tonight. I don’t often get to have nights like this.”

Crowley glanced around but it was almost one am at this point and there were few people on the streets. Apparently content, he kissed Aziraphale once, a chaste but warm press of lips that still put wings on Aziraphale’s foolish heart.

“Text me, yeah?” Crowley said, slipping away towards the front door of the hotel.

Aziraphale nodded, knowing that he looked exactly as lost as he felt.

* * *

Having already worn his most daring and stylish outfit, Aziraphale spent the next day and a half fretting over what to wear on his first proper date with Crowley. Tracy offered to take him shopping for something new but  _ that _ thought had him spiralling into a fresh panic.

Predictably, Shadwell was less use than a chocolate teapot with his earnest offer of letting Aziraphale borrow anything he wanted. Although, arguably, Aziraphale did take him up on that offer and borrowed all the items of Shadwell’s wardrobe that he wanted: none of them.

Three hours before he was due to meet Crowley, Aziraphale was still trying to decide what to wear for his date, as well as dealing with a particularly aggravating customer. He had wanted to close up the shop a bit early to give himself some time to unwind before plunging into the temporary insanity of being in Crowley’s presence, but business had been more lively than usual and it seemed daft to sacrifice potential income.

“How can you be sure if you haven’t checked?” The customer huffed, folding her arms. She was acting more like a fussy toddler than the professional her smart suit indicated.

“I know our inventory inside and out, I can assure you that we have no volumes about Horatio Hornblower. I can recommend several excellent books on the golden age of sail, or perhaps the life of Horatio  _ Nelson _ , but not Hornblower.” Aziraphale’s customer service smile was starting to falter, fraying around the ages.

“Well, why not?” the customer demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together into a firm line, holding back the tirade that he wanted to give. He swallowed as if the words were physical things he could control and pasted his smile back on.

“Because this is a shop for history books. Horatio Hornblower is a fictional character and, thus, is not a part of history. I can direct you to the nearest fiction shop, if you like?” Aziraphale managed to keep his tone just the right side of condescending.

The woman pursed her lips as if Aziraphale had personally offended her and ran a hand over her eyes in irritation.

“Fine. What about Jack Aubrey?” She asked at last.

“Newt!” Aziraphale called over his shoulder, almost hysterical with disbelief. “Your customer!”

“Right-o,” Newt’s response came from the back of the shop and was followed up by his footsteps.

Aziraphale inclined his head and stepped back, making a break for the backroom where he let his giggles escape without shame.

Some fifteen minutes later, an exasperated Newt slumped onto the stool across the counter from Aziraphale and gave him a baleful look.

“I still can’t work out if she was pulling my leg or not,” Newt moaned into his hands. “At one point she actually asked me about Sean Bean and then corrected herself with Sharpe. That has to be a wind up, right?”

Aziraphale patted Newt on the head, somewhat awkwardly.

“That’s working with the public, I’m afraid,” he offered, sympathetically. “Just when you think you’ve seen the stupidest or the cruellest of them, someone will find a way to prove you wrong.”

Newt sighed and sat up straight, casting a careful eye around the shop.

“You still want to close early? I think things might have tailed off now.”

Aziraphale looked up as if he hadn’t realised that the shop was empty and almost jumped out of his skin at the sight of Crowley’s grinning face across the street. His heartbeat only returned to something like a normal rhythm once he recognised his mistake.

“Poster got you again, didn’t it?” Newt said, grinning. “You must be all nerves for your date.”

“Enough of you, Mr Pulsifer. So cruel to your elders, no respect!” Aziraphale was laughing as he batted at Newt. “Go on, go home and find someone else to torment.”

Aziraphale closed up quickly, rushing through his usual routine. He set the alarm and locked the front door whilst in a dream-like haze. He was too eager to get home and let go of the day in order to prepare for his evening plans. The reality of his past few days still hadn’t sunk in to his understanding in any meaningful way. 

The flat was a disaster when Aziraphale got in, there was mess from the front door to the living room, trailed through to the kitchen. Discarded clothes, dirty plates, empty boxes, and takeaway containers littered the floor and every available surface.

“Shadwell!” Aziraphale yelled, furious. “Shadwell! What the blazes are you playing at?”

He stomped through the flat, kicking detritus out of his way and cursing under his breath. Shadwell’s head popped up from where he’d been lying on the sofa.

“Wha’s up?” he asked, apparently serious.

Aziraphale seethed, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal, human person.

“What happened in here? How have you turned this place from a reasonable living space into an actual bomb site?” Aziraphale fumed. “And in less than a day!”

Shadwell looked around at the flat, looking for all the world like he’d never seen the place before. Something akin to recognition began to settle onto his face.

“Ah, right,” he swallowed. “The mess. Well, ye see wha’ happened is I were lookin’ fer me matches. Couldnae find ‘em anywhere. So, I thought I’d have a wee tidy of me room, right? All o’the stuff had t’go somewhere...” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “I were plannin’ on havin’ it all sorted afore ye got home.” He paused again, a frown forming as he checked the time on his watch.

“Yer home early,” he concluded, as if Aziraphale was at fault for having seen the mess.

“I’m going out tonight, I wanted time to ge-” Aziraphale cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’d better have this all taken care of tonight. I’m serious.”

Aziraphale left the room before Shadwell could form any kind of coherent response, storming into the bathroom and stopping just short of slamming the door behind him. It took him far longer to calm down than he liked, just wanting the bad mood to be washed off his skin as easily as the soap suds as he showered.

He could hear Shadwell moving about the flat as he dashed from the bathroom to his bedroom, wrapped in just a towel. Aziraphale flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to will himself into some kind of appropriate and stable mood for his date. That was when he realised that, somewhere along the way, he’d let go of most of his starstruck awe. All of his nervousness, his desire to be his best self, wanting to impress Crowley, it all came from a genuine and growing attraction. This had never been solely about “scoring a date with a celebrity” but that  _ had  _ been an element in Aziraphale’s eagerness. Now he had to face the fact that he was attracted to Crowley as a person, as the person he was, not just as the public face he presented.

“Fuck.” 

This was an unexpected development. Not unwelcome, not by a long shot, but it would make the inevitable end that much worse. Aziraphale knew better than to hope for a permanent place in Crowley’s life.

With this realisation fresh in his mind, Aziraphale somehow managed to get himself ready to meet Crowley. He picked out a pale blue shirt and rolled the sleeves to just above his elbows, tucked the tails into light tan trousers and pulled dark blue suspenders over his shoulders. When the buzzer for the front door sounded, Aziraphale was plucking at his open collar, trying to get the two tips to sit evenly.

“I’ll get it!” he called to Shadwell, rushing out of his room to the intercom. The little screen showed Crowley standing on the doorstep with awkwardly hunched shoulders and his fingers jammed into the pockets of his tight jeans. Aziraphale lifted the handset and took a breath. “Hi there, I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Right-o,” Crowley said, baring his teeth at the camera in a grimace that could only be described as a smile by the excessively charitable.

“Shadwell, I’m going out. Have this place sorted out by the time I get back or you’ll have to start paying an actual fair share of the rent!” Aziraphale called over his shoulder before leaving the flat and all but running down the stairs.

“Hey,” Crowley said, raising a hand in greeting.

He was leaning against the railing, all sleek angles and clean lines. He looked like a classic sports car that had grown legs and decided leather could be for jackets as well as upholstery. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, arrested by the beauty before him. The fading sunlight glinted off Crowley’s hair in tones of ruby and gold, making him look like something precious and priceless.

“Hello, you.” Aziraphale finally found his voice and offered it with a warm smile.

Crowley lifted his sunglasses and glanced along the road in both directions before leaning in to kiss Aziraphale quickly on the lips. A second later and there was no sign that the kiss had occurred besides the warm flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley stepped backwards onto the pavement and gestured for Aziraphale to lead the way to dinner.

“Why do you do that?” Aziraphale asked as they headed away from his home.

“I don’t know where we’re going, remember? I can hardly start walking off without you leading,” Crowley’s frown was visible above his sunglasses.

“No, no,” Aziraphale shook his head and tried to clarify. “The looking about before you kiss me, why do you do that?”

Crowley sighed and curled into himself a little, bringing his shoulders up. Too late, Aziraphale recognised the signs of defences falling into place.

“Cameras are everywhere. Can’t be too careful.” Crowley sounded snippy, short.

A knot formed in Aziraphale’s stomach. He already knew that he wasn’t good enough for Crowley, that this was a temporary madness he was lucky enough to be part of, but to hear confirmation that Crowley didn’t want there to be any lasting evidence of their whatever-this-was. Well, it hurt.

“How have you been? Busy the past few days, I suppose?” Aziraphale tried to find a new subject despite feeling like he’d been the butt of an unpleasant joke.

“Yeah, really busy. Today was all radio interviews, yesterday we taped with Graham Norton, still keeping the publicity machine turning.” Aziraphale watched Crowley as he spoke, seeing the weariness in the set of his features.

“Sounds exhausting, when do you get to relax?” Aziraphale linked his fingers behind his back as he spoke, trying to distract himself from the lack of Crowley’s hand in his.

“Now, and the other night. This time with you is about the only free time I’ve got until the end of this damn promotional circus,” Crowley’s words were sharp but his tone softened and he smiled at Aziraphale, setting off a flight of stomach-dwelling butterflies who apparently hadn’t got the earlier memo.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blushed and looked at his feet, far too pleased with the implications of Crowley’s answer. “I’m beyond flattered that you’ve chosen to spend your precious free time with me.”

If Aziraphale didn’t know better, and perhaps he didn’t, he might have thought that Crowley looked rather shy and even flustered at that. 

They arrived at Aziraphale’s favourite, affordable Soho sushi restaurant, Eat Tokyo, in short order. Aziraphale was relieved to see only two people waiting outside and he took a place behind them.

“Forget to book a table, did we?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale huffed and lifted his chin.

“Hardly. This place doesn’t take bookings,” he gave Crowley a careful look and decided that, so far, he’d been rewarded for forwardness. “Of course, if the great Anthony Crowley is too precious to wait for a table with the rabble and riff-raff, I’m sure you’d be able to scare up a reservation at any number of high-end restaurants. That, sadly, would be entirely out of my budget and I’d have to bid you goodnight where we stand.”

He watched Crowley’s face and got the satisfaction of seeing his gentle gibe draw out a reluctant smirk.

“You’re awful to me, you know,” Crowley retorted. “I should just leave you here.”

Instead, Crowley leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, settling in for a wait. He was smiling at Aziraphale, looking over the tops of his sunglasses in a manner that clearly said he’d enjoyed being prodded like that. Crowley had enough people around him stroking his ego and fawning at his feet, someone prepared to challenge him appeared to be a welcome change.

After a short wait in the last of the daylight, Aziraphale and Crowley were shown to a table tucked into the corner of a side room. Walking through the winding restaurant, Crowley sank his head between his shoulders and looked at the floor. Aziraphale had a pang of pity, recognising how ingrained this behaviour was in Crowley, how he must have learned to make himself small and unapproachable.

Crowley uncurled at their table, tucking his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt and shrugging off his jacket easily. They picked a wine between them and ordered a selection of dishes to share. Crowley delighted Aziraphale with his adventurous palate and knowledge of sushi terminology. Aziraphale appeared to delight Crowley with his many tales of bizarre customer interactions. 

Between them, they carried the conversation easily from comparing families (Aziraphale: orphaned, one sister, of course; Crowley: parents divorced, mum very proud, dad out of the picture, no siblings), educations (Aziraphale: Bachelors in medieval history; Crowley: Masters in astrophysics, still hopes to get his PhD one day), and skirting around the topic of past relationships just enough to see the lay of the land (Aziraphale: single for a number of years following an unpleasant relationship; Crowley: single for about 6 months, nothing really serious in a long time). It felt to Aziraphale as if this were a completely normal date, the only pressure being his growing attraction and affection for Crowley. All the external nonsense seemed to melt away into nothingness whenever Aziraphale managed to make Crowley laugh, once hard enough to almost choke on tuna sashimi. 

Aziraphale had just finished teasing Crowley about his fake name at the Ritz, learning that Crowley had made a habit of using the lesser known birth names of famous musicians when staying at hotels. Using his chopsticks, Aziraphale picked up a piece of vegetable tempura and bit into it. His eyes closed, savouring the delicate flavour and crisp batter in a kind of reverent silence. A lull in the ambient noise allowed a nearby conversation to take the forefront.

“Nah, nah, mate. If I’ve got one ticket to any show on earth, I’m seeing _ The Demons _ , no question.” An unseen man said.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, checking to see if he had heard it. A smirk and twinkle in his eye suggested that he had and was amused. He raised a slender finger to his lips, shushing anything Aziraphale might have been about to say, grinning conspiratorially.

“Pfft, you would say that. Bet you got posters of Anthony Crowley on your bedroom walls still!” A second male voice joked. Aziraphale held back a snort. “They’re too obvious for me, like they know how great everyone thinks they are. Give me underrated talent any day.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and made a helpless gesture which had Aziraphale clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

“Come on,” said the first man, “you really gonna say that the sheer spectacle of a  _ Demons _ live show isn’t enough to win you over?”

“If I wanted spectacle, I’d go see that fella with the tape on his hands, was married to that actress. Wassis band called?” A third voice added.

Crowley mouthed “ _ Coldplay _ ” to Aziraphale with mock dismay.

“Come off it,” the first man wasn’t dropping his point. “Name a bigger band than  _ The Demons _ from the past twenty years? Or ever? They’ve got the same level of recognition and success as  _ Queen  _ and  _ The Beatles _ . And they’re at their height right now, even just for the clout of saying you’d seen them, they’ve gotta be worth it.”

This time, Crowley put his hands over his heart and swayed in his seat, miming his appreciation for the praise.

“And, obviously,” a female voice piped up, “Anthony Crowley could definitely get it. Could have his pick of the crowd, being in the presence of that kind of magnetism has something to be said for it.”

Aziraphale fanned himself with one hand, giving Crowley a coquettish side-glance. Crowley did snort at that, holding up a finger to beg for a pause while he took a swallow of water.

“He’d not be picking you though, love. Great flamin’ poofter, in’he?” The second man spoke again, sounding more bristly than before. Crowley and Aziraphale both flinched at the casual use of the slur. “Not that there’s anythin’ wrong with that. Just not going near you, is he?”

“A girl can dream,” the woman retorted.

“You wanna dream about that junkie-looking, Jagger-strutting, cock-swallower, don’t let me stop you. Just didn’t know that ‘riddled with STDs’ was your type.” Aziraphale was coming to think of the owner of this voice purely as “Arsehole”.

Crowley cringed a little, shrinking in his seat. Aziraphale reached across the table and patted his hand in a way that he hoped was comforting.

“That’s not at all fair! Are you just jealous because he’s your age?” The woman sniped back, earning a murmur of support from the others at the table.

“Hardly! Who’d be jealous of that talentless skeleton? You just know he got where he is by sucking cock and bending over for anyone who so much as looked at him.”

Crowley slid down in his chair, pale and grim. Aziraphale snatched the napkin off his lap and tossed it on to the table before standing. He saw Crowley glance up in alarm but he’d already taken a step towards the main restaurant and wasn’t about to be put off. He found the offending table just the other side of the wall, the arsehole still holding court.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale broke into the tirade of Crowley’s many imagined faults. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and, besides it being rather too loud for such a close space, you might do well to remember that the person you are talking about is, in fact, a real person with feelings and insecurities. Using such awful language about someone you don’t even know, well, you should be ashamed.”

A stunned silence held the table for a moment only to be broken by the arsehole.

“What’s it to you? Defending him in a random restaurant isn’t going to make him fuck  _ you  _ either!”

The rest of the table looked appalled at their friend’s conduct. The woman touched Aziraphale’s sleeve to get his attention.

“I’m sorry, we’ll keep it down. He’s had a bit much to drink.”

Smiling at her, Aziraphale returned to his table to find Crowley hiding his face in his hands.

“Sorry about that, I rather think it didn’t help.”

Crowley shook his head, still hiding his face.

“It helped,” he said in a small voice. “Can’t remember the last time someone stood up for me that wasn’t getting paid for it.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face before pulling them away. It was clear to Aziraphale that Crowley had been holding back tears. Whether through mortification or something softer, Aziraphale couldn’t say. He reached for Crowley’s hand once again, giving it a gentle squeeze and trying to offer some comfort.

In the next few minutes, Aziraphale managed to become a paragon of efficiency. He paid their bill and helped Crowley into his jacket, standing ready to take their leave from the restaurant. They could both still hear the conversation from the table just beyond the side room and Crowley paused.

“I’m sorry, I’ve made this awkward.” Aziraphale said through his regret.

“No, not at all. I’m grateful, and it was very sweet,” Crowley was quick to reassure him. “Time was I’d have done the same.”

They stepped out into the main dining area and hurried past the offending table, just not fast enough to hear the arsehole gasp.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“Oh, fuck it.” Crowley spun on his heel and ducked around Aziraphale to face the table. “I’m so  _ very _ sorry for my friend, he has this nervous reaction around dickheads. Makes him point out glaring character flaws. I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” Crowley focused on the man turning a deep red and trying to disappear. “Except you, I hope you remain as dissatisfied as every person you’ve ever slept with!”

Flashing a wide smile, Crowley turned and grabbed Aziraphale’s elbow, all but dragging him out of the restaurant and a little way down the street before finally stopping and letting go.

“My dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale tugged at his sleeve, settling the folds just so.

“That was so stupid, I should not have done that. Fuck!” Crowley threw his head back and stared at the night sky. “Felt good, though. Did feel good.”

After Crowley collected himself and grumbled about having to warn his manager about the potential for a minor PR scuffle, they started to wander towards Mayfair. Crowley assured Aziraphale that the evening had been far from ruined and they fell back into comfortable conversation between companionable silences. It felt so very natural to Aziraphale, just to walk and be beside Crowley, as if he’d been doing it for thousands of years.

The front doors of the Ritz were in sight when Crowley stopped and caught Aziraphale’s hands, bringing them face to face.

“Would you like to come up?” Crowley asked, searching Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Oh, yes. Very much.” Aziraphale’s brain screamed incoherent nonsense, trying to make him reconsider, to protect himself from the inevitable fallout. Instead, he pulled out his heart and served it like Serena Williams at Wimbledon, not knowing if Crowley would return the volley.

“Great,” Crowley nodded and swallowed. “Right, good. Yep. Ha ha, OK.”

As impossible as it seemed, Aziraphale realised that Crowley was nervous. This perfect man, exquisite in every way, was near trembling with nerves from the thought of having Aziraphale in his room.

“Only if you want to,” Aziraphale offered the exit, trying to swallow down his hopes enough that Crowley wouldn’t be able to see them die.

Crowley gave Aziraphale an appraising look and appeared to come to a decision. Instead of answering, he took hold of Aziraphale’s hand and led him into the hotel foyer. Aziraphale had to hurry to keep up with Crowley’s long strides, almost colliding with him when he stopped in front of the lift. The narrow doors opened and a couple exited; Crowley stepped back to let them pass and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand before bundling him into the small space.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Crowley was kissing Aziraphale, crowding him against the mirrored wall. The brass handrail pressed uncomfortably into the small of Aziraphale’s back and he shifted, pressing back into Crowley. Their legs slotted together and Aziraphale could feel the stiffening length of Crowley in his jeans. The thought that Crowley would be able to feel the same from him was simply electrifying.

“You’re so,  _ fuck _ ,” Crowley muttered eloquently into Aziraphale’s mouth. “Aziraphale, you’re so perfect.”

Before Aziraphale could voice his opinion on the matter, the doors opened once more and Crowley tucked his arm around Aziraphale’s waist to guide him to the suite. The contact was only broken when Crowley had to rummage through his pockets to find the room key. Just as he pulled it, triumphant, from the inside pocket of his jacket, the door swung inwards to reveal a tall man wearing a grey suit and a grim expression.

“Anthony, you missed our meeting.” The man had an American accent and no humour in his voice. “And you didn’t answer my calls. Figured I’d let myself in.”

Crowley squirmed beside Aziraphale, obviously uncomfortable with the American’s presence.

“Something, uh, came up,” Crowley said, hunching his shoulders.

“So I see,” the American gave Aziraphale a withering glare before turning his attention back to Crowley. “Look, Tony, in case you somehow  _ forgot _ , we’re trying to launch an album here. Do you know what “breach of contract” means? It means that  _ you  _ only get free time when  _ I _ say you do and I don’t remember anything about giving you tonight off. This is your  _ job _ , and it’s my job to make sure that you do your job. That job doesn’t include swanning off around London like this with your  _ friend. _ ”

Aziraphale grew more and more angry with each second, who did this man think he was to speak to Crowley like that? To try and intimidate him? The urge to defend Crowley against this indignity was boiling under Aziraphale’s skin.

“He’s not my friend,” Crowley sounded small.

Aziraphale looked at him, trying to school his face into something that wouldn’t betray his shock.

“We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.” Crowley was babbling, lancing Aziraphale through the heart with each word.

He could see the American’s eyes narrowing in disbelief as Crowley flailed for an explanation. Despite all his better instincts, Aziraphale fell on his own sword.

“I’m terribly sorry, sirs, I can see that I’ve intruded here,” Aziraphale said as he stepped back, putting a respectful distance between Crowley and himself. “Mr Crowley, I only wanted to say what a great admirer I am of your work. Again, I’m awfully sorry for intruding.”

Aziraphale turned away and walked back to the lift, not daring to look over his shoulder until he heard the hotel room door close. Crowley had gone inside without saying another word. It was only seeing the closed door and feeling the flood of grief that confirmed for Aziraphale that he’d been hoping for Crowley to come after him. The confirmation that he had been left alone, cast aside at the first inconvenience, weighed Aziraphale down like rocks in his lungs.

With leaden feet and in a daze, Aziraphale made his way home. He had always known that he was reaching beyond his grasp, this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, and yet Aziraphale hadn’t been ready to stop reaching. Not just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to yell your feelings at me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Woo! 
> 
> Belated thanks to EdnaV for taking me to Eat Tokyo and inspiring Aziraphale and Crowley's date in Ch5!
> 
> My very wonderful friends have been busy with amazing projects for Soho! MovesLikeBucky has created a fabulous [mood board](https://moveslikebucky.tumblr.com/post/616660792911200256/aziraphale-lives-a-quiet-kind-of-life-running-a) and a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4xPyM503qH5XFSbMLnHVfB?si=dtBUq4f-RaiP-zibZAIoqg) so on point that I think they might be living in my head!
> 
> Callus Ran created this incredible [poster art](https://ran196242.tumblr.com/post/616309274596032512/a-commission-i-got-to-work-on-for-soho) based on the original Notting Hill poster. I'm deeply in love with it. She got the characters looking exactly how they do in my head.
> 
> I'll embed the art in the work when the whole thing is finished but please do check out the above links. They are really something special.

In the grand scheme of things, Aziraphale knew that he had been lucky. He was lucky to have met Crowley, lucky to have enjoyed the time they had together, lucky to have known the touch and taste of Crowley’s kisses. He had no right to complain.

And yet, his heart ached. It ached far more than he felt was rational. He tried to tell it to buck up, that its loss had been minimal, but it didn’t seem to want to listen. Weeks passed and still Aziraphale felt the ache just as keenly.

_The Demons_ launched their new album, it topped the charts and got endless amounts of publicity. Every day, Aziraphale sat behind the counter of his bookshop and stared across the street at the artful glower on the face of Crowley’s promotional poster. As habits go, it was certainly not the healthiest. When he finally saw the posters being taken down, he strongly considered popping across to the record shop and asking for Crowley’s. It was a daft idea that he knew would only prolong his hurt, but still, he wasn’t ready to lose that tenuous connection. Newt caught his eye and shook his head, positioning himself between Aziraphale and the door, apparently preparing to physically stop him from leaving the shop. Aziraphale deflated, allowing sense to overrule his heart’s foolishness.

Aziraphale’s maudlin introspection followed him home like a stray dog, even as he got changed for another dinner party at Leslie and Maud’s. Ostensibly, it was to celebrate Maud closing a big case at work, but Aziraphale could recognise an intervention when he was invited to one. His friends were worried about him and he supposed they had good reason to be.

Aziraphale walked the short distance to his friends’ home, deep in his thoughts. It had only been two dates and a handful of kisses but he felt more torn up by how it had ended than when he’d watched his partner of eight years walk out on him. It didn’t make sense.

Maud opened the door to him, all smiles and comfort. Aziraphale let her hug him until Leslie complained about the draught from the door. They moved to the living room where Arthur was already examining the selection of wine bottles. With a pang, Aziraphale recognised the beribboned bottle that Crowley had brought to Tracy’s birthday dinner.

“Aziraphale! Good to see you, old man,” Arthur clapped him on the back. “How’s tricks?”

Summoning up his most convincing smile, Aziraphale clasped Arthur’s arm in greeting.

“Oh, you know. Ups, downs, highs, lows. Ticking along for the most part. How are you?”

Arthur needed little encouragement to start bemoaning the current state of his life. He was convinced that he’d be let go any day now, that the current economic stability was a short-lived blip that would soon cost the company billions and spell countless redundancies. Arthur’s concerns were a familiar and soothing distraction. He’d been predicting his imminent unemployment for a number of years, following his promotion from the satellite office in Swindon.

Tracy turned up just before Leslie served up dinner, apologising and flitting about while she tried to decide who to greet first. As as result of these distractions, Aziraphale was halfway through his third glass of wine and dissecting a disaster of a chicken and ham pie when the topic suddenly shifted, catching him unawares.

“Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Crowley, then?” Leslie asked with a casualness that had to have been practised.

“Ah, is it that time already?” Aziraphale sighed, having resigned himself to this inevitability as soon as he’d accepted the invitation. “No, I haven’t heard from him and I don’t expect that I will.”

“It’s just so odd, for him to pretend that he didn’t know you like that, to dismiss you. He didn’t seem the type.” Maud at least sounded sympathetic as she patted his hand. “You deserve better, love, you do.”

“That’s easy to say, harder to believe,” Aziraphale said, glumly.

Tracy pulled a sad face, pouting comically at Aziraphale’s gloomy expression.

“You should let me read your cards,” she offered, “Might do you a world of good.”

Knowing that her heart was in the right place, Aziraphale agreed to let her try after dinner, much to Tracy’s delight.

“The problem is, you see, we’re just mortals. People like Crowley, they’re gods.” Arthur was on the wrong side of tipsy but determined to make his point. “Mortals can’t reach the gods and the gods? Well, they just bugger the mortals, don’t they?”

To their credit, no one made the obvious joke and Aziraphale was grateful for it.

“I’ve got a bit of a different solution to the problem,” Leslie said cryptically. He paused just for the drama of it. “His name is William, he’s a content writer at the firm. The hair, I will admit, is receding, but he’s a great laugh, good looking, and most assuredly single!”

Arthur, Tracy, and Leslie erupt into laughter and yells of encouragement aimed at Aziraphale. Maud gives him a hopeful smile and watches his reaction.

“Alright, alright. Make the call. I’ll meet all the men I know you’ve been dying to set me up with!” Aziraphale managed to give his response with a light-heartedness that he simply didn’t feel.

However, this appeared to be enough to convince his friends that the period of moping after unattainable rock stars had finally come to an end. He could put on a brave face and withstand a few blind dates, something to cleanse his palate of Crowley and, perhaps, whet his appetite for dating again.

What followed was a series of lacklustre dates and dinner parties, during which Aziraphale met a series of perfectly nice men who each excited him about as much as a teaspoon.

William’s hair was indeed receding, as much as he was trying to simultaneously fight and ignore it. He was good looking enough, if you like that sort of thing. Aziraphale had never really considered himself particularly fussy about physical appearance before Crowley. Now it was hard to imagine anyone living up to the ideal that Aziraphale had constructed from half a dozen stolen touches.

William’s laugh was genuine and freely given, and although he was a little awkward about Maud’s wheelchair to start with, they got over that quickly enough. Aziraphale had found William reasonably charming but it soon became apparent that William considered himself a great wit and would laugh uproariously at his own jokes, constantly trying to dominate conversations with his every thought. Eventually, Aziraphale found him grating and brought the evening to an end.

Noah was next. There was nothing in the way of chemistry between them and that much was obvious from the moment they met. Noah was a walking pride flag, from his rainbow shoelaces to his dyed and sculpted moustache, everything that could signal his sexuality was doing so. Aziraphale admired the confidence required, it wasn’t his style, but it appeared that Noah had adopted the loud-and-proud look as a substitute for developing any kind of personality. After an evening of being shown endless photos of Noah’s many pets and hearing about their various digestive troubles, it was agreed that Arthur didn’t get to suggest any more blind dates.

Terry was, by almost every metric, perfect. He was attractive in an approachable way, funny without being cruel or attention-seeking, interesting as a person as well as interested in Aziraphale. The evening they spent at Leslie and Maud’s, joking over the driest swordfish steaks possibly in the world, was one of the most enjoyable evenings that Aziraphale had had in quite some time. 

When he walked Terry to the door, Aziraphale’s smile was genuine, as was his comment about hoping their paths might cross again. He couldn’t quite bring himself to agree to another date and he was sure that Terry could sense his hesitancy. Terry kissed Aziraphale on the cheek, gave a restrained smile, and walked off into the night.

Aziraphale closed the door and leaned against it, buying himself a few moments before having to face his hopeful friends.

“Well?” Leslie asked as soon as Aziraphale dropped onto the sofa.

“Perfect,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Absolutely perfect.”

“But?” Maud filled in the unspoken word.

Aziraphale groaned, knowing that he was being impossible.

“You two are incredibly lucky, you know?” Aziraphale wasn’t ready to face the real elephant in the room. “To have found each other, loving each other the way you do. It’s not something that everyone gets to have.” He took a deep breath, trying to get ahead of the emotions welling up in his chest. “Maybe I missed my chance. Maybe I let it go when Sandy left and I didn’t fight to keep him.”

Leslie hissed through his teeth, grimacing as Maud leaned forward in her chair to get Aziraphale’s attention.

“No. You know that’s not true. Sandy might have been the one to leave, but you were strong and brave in making that break up stick. Whether or not you really believe that you’re not going to find love again doesn’t matter because Sandy was not it. He hit you, Aziraphale. That’s never the love you’re meant to accept.”

When Maud put it like that, it really was difficult to form any kind of counterpoint. Even his nastiest thoughts- which could usually be counted on to sow a sliver of doubt- had been silenced. Aziraphale merely nodded in mute acknowledgement of her words.

“Sandy, may his name never be spoken under this roof again, was many things. The love of your life was not and is not one of them.” Leslie sounded like he could spit feathers. Maud dropped a hand on his knee and calmed him.

With nothing better to do, Aziraphale sagged back into the sofa like a particularly soft ragdoll.

“Thirty years from now, I’ll be here on this sofa, in this same life, no more or less content than I currently am. I can live with that, I think.” Aziraphale tried not to sound quite as maudlin as he felt.

“I hope not!” Leslie scolded, “That sofa needs replacing soon, don’t curse me to another thirty years of it!”

They laughed more easily at that, some of the tension having been carried away on the wings of humour. After a moment, Leslie took Maud’s hand from his knee and squeezed it before leaning forward and pinning Aziraphale in place with a look.

“It’s just fresh right now, fella. You won’t feel this way forever.”

And it was reassuring, it was. Even if Aziraphale didn’t believe it, he could still take comfort from his friend’s certainty.

“Do you want to spend the night?” Maud offered just as she had dozens of times before.

Aziraphale didn’t want to impose on his friends any more than he already had, having used their home and hospitality for his blind date. Still, the walk home and the climb up the dreary stairs to his flat seemed utterly impossible in his current mood. Maud must have already seen it.

“All that awaits me at home is a masturbating Scotsman with a witch obsession. I’d love to stay.”

“Shadwell is Scottish?” Leslie said, sounding confused. “The accent is such a disaster, I’ve never been able to work it out.”

Maud swatted him for being impolite although Aziraphale knew exactly what Leslie meant, Shadwell simply had An Accent, the geographical origin of which was a mystery to all but the most discerning ear.

“You know where everything is, we’ll leave you to it,” Maud said, ignoring her husband for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nodded and waved them both away with a fond expression softening his face. This was all the love he needed, really. Romance was overrated in comparison to the true strength of platonic love. He was firm in this conclusion for all of ten seconds. He watched Leslie pick Maud up from her wheelchair and carry her up the stairs, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. The look of pure, unadulterated love that passed between them was a lightning bolt to Aziraphale’s bruised heart.

There had to be someone out there who would look at him like that, and who wouldn’t shy away from being looked at thusly by Aziraphale.

He fetched a blanket out from the pouffe and wrapped himself in it before lying down on the sofa. Shuffling down a touch so that the spot with thin padding wasn’t digging into his hip, Aziraphale curled on his side and tried to remember what it felt like to sleep in the arms of a lover.

In the morning, Aziraphale rose with the sun as it hit him square in the eyes through a gap in the blinds. Before long, he could hear the sounds of movement coming from upstairs. Feeling like he should do something to repay his friends, Aziraphale scouted about the kitchen and found everything he needed for a kind of bastard eggs benedict.

By the time that Leslie carried Maud downstairs and set her back in her chair, Aziraphale had made breakfast and done most of the washing up. It was well worth the delighted reactions from his friends, the way that Maud ate with such enthusiasm reminded him that he should cook for the group more often. Leslie simply wasn’t improving, despite his repeated pleas to bear with him while he learned.

They all left the house together, Leslie driving Maud into the city before heading to his delivery depot, Aziraphale walking in the pleasant morning coolness and thinking about what he’d need to do in order to get the shop opened on time.

He was fresh out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and pulling clothes out of his wardrobe, when the doorbell rang. Grumbling under his breath, Aziraphale gripped his towel tighter about his waist and padded out to the intercom. The handset was out of the cradle before his eyes focused on the little screen and what he saw took his breath away.

“Hello,” Aziraphale breathed into the mouthpiece.

“Can I come in?” Crowley asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter update today. Gotta keep that narrative tension, or something. Chapter 8 is shaping up to be a beast though so don't despair!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, sportsfans, I'm back with chapter 7.
> 
> We've got some heavy stuff in this chapter. Mostly to the tune of referenced sexual assault and the general abuse of celebrities by popular media.
> 
> In happier news, there's also some lovely art by the wonderful Tarek who brought a scene to life for me. 
> 
> As always, my thanks to my team of cheerleaders and beta readers. This fic has been fighting me lately and I wouldn't have got over this bump without you all.

Crowley didn’t take his sunglasses off until the door of Aziraphale’s flat closed behind him and it was immediately obvious why. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, puffy from reluctant tears. Whatever complicated emotional reaction Aziraphale had been tangling with since seeing Crowley on the intercom screen was squashed down by surprise and concern. Aziraphale hadn’t ever imagined seeing Crowley so open and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go,” Crowley said in a hurry. “I know I don’t have any right to be here and I’ll leave if you want, I just...” he trailed off, gesturing loosely for the words he was struggling to find.

“Nonsense, come in. You’re always welcome here,” Aziraphale guided Crowley into the living room, fighting his urge to touch and check the reality of this mirage in his home. “Can I get you anything? Tea? What do you need?”

“Tea would be- yeah, tea would be good,” Crowley nodded and folded himself into a corner of the sofa.

Standing beside him, Aziraphale could almost feel the weight of Crowley’s gaze as it travelled up his body. He was practically naked, he realised with a jolt, and Crowley was looking at him.

“Ah, sorry about this,” Aziraphale wrapped an arm across his chest, still clutching the two ends of the towel with the other hand. “I’ll pop the kettle on and get dressed. Be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, OK?”

At Crowley’s answering nod and weak smile, Aziraphale hurried off to get himself sorted. Whilst the kettle was coming to a boil, he threw on a t-shirt and an old pair of pale linen trousers and headed back to the kitchen. His mind was racing with questions and conflicting desires. It had been weeks, months even, since he’d walked away from Crowley. The pain was still present but he had been coming to terms with it in time. He had accepted that he wasn’t going to see Crowley again, even though he was constantly bombarded with reminders of Crowley, his success, and his status as something godlike.

The click of the kettle coming off the boil snapped Aziraphale from his meandering thoughts. 

“Milk? Sugar?” Aziraphale called out as he poured water into the two mugs.

“Uh, yeah, just a splash of milk, please.”

And, damn it all, just the sound of his voice had Aziraphale smiling stupidly. He was in just as much danger as he’d ever been, if not more. Every little seed of affection that Crowley had planted in Aziraphale’s heart was revived and poised to burst forth into a forest. 

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep the idiotic and inappropriate grin from his face, Aziraphale carried the tea into the living room and found Crowley largely as he had left him: folded up small and looking horribly vulnerable.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale said as he placed Crowley’s mug on the coffee table before sitting in the armchair beside the sofa, as close to Crowley as he dared to get. “I hope that’s alright for you.”

Crowley looked up to offer a weak smile of thanks but didn’t reach for the mug. Silent seconds stretched out between them as Aziraphale sipped his tea and watched Crowley. He was certain that Crowley had something he was trying to say, some explanation that he was struggling to put into words, but Aziraphale didn’t want to rush him.

Finally, Crowley extended one long arm and picked the mug up from the coffee table, bringing it to his lips briefly and then cradling it against his chest, the fingers of both hands locked around it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly and not looking up from his mug. “About how we lef- about how I left things with you. And now I’ve just dropped in on you with no warning or anything. Maybe this was a mistake.”

With Crowley looking so disarmingly bare and raw, Aziraphale couldn’t help but put his own feelings aside. He moved forward to rest his elbows on his knees, giving Crowley as much of his physical presence as he could.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale kept his voice gentle and waited for Crowley to look up at him. “You are welcome here, for as long as you need. Would you like to tell me what’s happened?”

“You haven’t seen?” Crowley sounded surprised more than affronted. Aziraphale shook his head. After fishing his phone out of his pocket, Crowley opened a news story and handed his phone to Aziraphale. “Here, read this and I’ll fill in the blanks.”

**Demons Frontman Anthony Crowley Named as Accuser in Lucas Morgenstern Case.**

The headline made Aziraphale’s stomach drop into his shoes. Everyone knew about the allegations that had been made against the big-time record executive, it had been all over the news for the past week. The identity and details of the accusation had been protected under law but it was an open secret that Morgenstern was suspected of sexual misconduct with an artist he had helped launch. Aziraphale hadn’t considered the possibility that Crowley might be the one making the claims. 

Feeling faintly sick, Aziraphale read on. Despite the injunctions and legal orders preventing Crowley from being named, a member of parliament had invoked parliamentary privilege and posed a question about the case during a debate. The question, to Aziraphale, appeared to be a thinly veiled abuse of privilege designed to put Crowley’s name on public record and it had clearly worked. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley’s intense gaze fixed on him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

Taking back his phone, Crowley gave a grim little smile, too tight and strained to convey any actual happiness.

“Yeah, not ideal.”

“I can’t imagine how you must-” Aziraphale broke off and froze, the clock on the wall looming large in his vision. “Bugger, is that the time?” He was gripped by a moment of panic, his mind suddenly reminding him of a rather imminent and pressing demand on his time. “I have to call Newt before he leaves for the shop. Sorry, this won’t take a minute.”

“Of course,” Crowley withdrew back into himself, tucking himself smaller into the corner of the sofa. The sight of it pinched at Aziraphale’s heart. He stayed seating and leaning towards Crowley as he dialled, trying to let him know that he wasn’t going to abandon him.

The phone was ringing before Aziraphale realised that he didn’t know what he was going to say to Newt. The panic reached a peak just as the call connected.

“Hello?” Newt had managed to answer his mobile so that was a promising start.

“Hi Newt, I hope you haven’t left home yet. I’m, uh, I’m not feeling very well today.” Aziraphale grimaced comically at Crowley for the lie. “I don’t think I’ll be opening the shop, so sorry for the short notice.”

Newt hummed down the line, the doubt obvious.

“Aziraphale, are you pulling a sickie?” His voice was an even split of suspicion and giggles.

“How- What- Newt! How can you accuse me like this?” Aziraphale knew he’d been rumbled in his artless deceit.

“Tell me everything tomorrow and pay me for half the day?”

“Like you even had to ask. Of course.” Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley and found him staring into the middle distance. “Must go now, Newt, enjoy your day.”

“Right, bye.” Aziraphale hung up and set his phone on the coffee table before addressing Crowley. “So sorry about that. I’m all yours,” he started to smile and then heard his own words filter back in. “I mean, that is, ha, that you have my attention. No more distractions.”

Crowley sipped his tea again and kicked off his boots to tuck his feet under his body, becoming ever smaller until Aziraphale, in a moment of hysteria, wondered if he might disappear completely. 

“I think I’ve fucked up my whole life,” Crowley said in a small voice.

Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to sit beside Crowley, draw him into an embrace and hold him until all the problems of the world had melted away. Having no way to know if his touch would even be welcomed, he settled for leaning a little closer.

“Tell me what happened?”

* * *

The story that Crowley told him wasn’t one that Aziraphale had ever read in a magazine or on the gossip pages. It wouldn’t ever be printed, not in the way that Crowley told it that morning over two cups of tea and half a box of tissues.

What Aziraphale learned was that Crowley and his best friends had formed The Demons when they were still in college, only 17 or 18 years old, and despite the odds and more than a few dust-ups, the original group were still all together. During university, they had taken a break but reunited after graduating, finding that they all still had the passion for the music they’d been making. Then 22 years old and pursuing a doctorate, Crowley had thrown himself into making the band a success, booking gigs, writing songs, recording tapes, rehearsing until they were note-perfect. He pushed the band hard and he pushed himself harder, determined that they could make it if they just got the right break.

Ultimately, Crowley knew that either the band would breakthrough or he would burn out in spectacular fashion. The pressure of his PhD studies was reaching its peak and the band needed more attention than ever as they started booking bigger shows and getting a following. At the time, Lucas Morgenstern had seemed like a miracle sent from heaven. He had signed the band at their first meeting and quickly took care of all of the management aspects that had been running Crowley into the ground. On advice from Lucas, Crowley dropped out of his doctorate program and focused on the band full time. 

Everything moved so fast for a while that Crowley admitted he could barely remember a lot of it. They recorded an album, toured as support for a number of big names, and even started to hear their music on the radio on the odd occasion. And then one day, Lucas called Crowley for a meeting.

He’d gone along, thinking that the whole band had been called as well. It wasn’t until Lucas had locked the door to his office that Crowley recognised the situation he’d been lured into. This man had saved him in so many ways, caught him before he’d burned to pieces, made his dreams come true; he hadn’t wanted to believe the things he was starting to fear, sat in front of that big, glossy, dark desk.

Lucas had been pleasant at first, friendly, checking in with Crowley on his wellbeing and health. Then the mood had shifted and Lucas had grown serious. He had explained that he was under a lot of pressure from those above him to make cuts to the current roster. Of course, those unnamed higher-ups were of a different generation, they weren’t as happy to have such a diverse band on their label. There were concerns that _The_ _Demons_ just weren’t marketable on a large scale. 

Lucas wanted to help them, of course he did, he believed in their talent. He didn’t care that they were a black man, a woman, and a non-binary person, fronted by an openly gay man with androgynous style, he liked that about them. He thought that they were exactly the sort of shake up that the industry needed. Lucas would willingly fight to keep them, he just needed to know that he was fighting for someone who was appreciative of his efforts, if Crowley understood his meaning.

Crowley was 23, still so young and naive in many ways, but he had known what he was being asked. In that moment, he could only think of how hard they had all worked, how he would be letting down his best friends and depriving them all of their big break. No one would touch them again if they were dropped from a label so quickly. It was a fall from which there could be no recovery. And he knew,  _ he knew _ , that if their roles were reversed and it was any of the others here instead, he’d have told them it wasn’t worth it, that this wasn’t the kind of help they needed. But it wasn’t any of his friends in that office, it was Crowley, and even knowing that they wouldn’t want him to do this, Crowley hadn’t thought that he could cope with the guilt.

Ultimately, Crowley had done what he felt he needed to do. The band had stayed signed to the label.

For two years, Crowley had lived in fear of receiving a summons from Lucas, a demand for a private meeting that he wouldn’t be able to escape from. They were erratic, unpredictable, but inevitable. By the time their contract had come up for renewal,  _ The Demons _ were enough of a success that they’d been able to negotiate a new deal at a different label. On the last day that they were signed to Lucas, Crowley had finally confessed the truth to his bandmates, expecting them to hate him or reject him as sullied.

Instead, they had raged on his behalf before committing the entire day to gathering as much evidence as they could from Crowley’s emails before they lost access. Almost 20 years later, Crowley still had those emails stored safely, just in case.

Crowley had thought that this would be the end of it. They were away from Lucas and still making music, playing shows, selling records, the stuff of their dreams. Stupidly, perhaps, Crowley had believed that Lucas had singled him out, that this wasn’t a pattern of behaviour the Lucas indulged in. It had taken a long time, but rumours had finally reached Crowley about Lucas manipulating others in the way that he had with Crowley. With the blessing and full support of his bandmates and current management, Crowley had gone with a lawyer to present his evidence to the police. Still worried for the ongoing success of his band and the stability of his closest friends, Crowley had secured anonymity as best he could, trying to protect everything they’d worked for from being torn apart by the press and vengeful executives. Despite everything he had accomplished, everything he had achieved in the intervening years, Crowley still feared Lucas and the damage he could wreak.

* * *

Aziraphale’s heart broke for Crowley a hundred times over as he laid out his story, making no move to hide his tears or pain. Aziraphale had inched closer, wanting to offer some comfort but not knowing what might be welcome.

“So, I woke up this morning to find my name in all the headlines, my face on all the front pages, and half the tabloid press of Britain camped out around the hotel,” Crowley said, concluding his story. “I managed to sneak out into a car arranged by the staff but I had no idea where to go, where I might be safe.”

He sounded so apologetic and sure of rejection that Aziraphale broke right out of his uncertainty. Leaning across the gulf between their seats, he gripped Crowley’s hand and held it until Crowley looked up at him.

“Here. You’re safe here. You came to the right place.” Aziraphale had never meant anything more surely.

“I owe you such an apology,” Crowley started to say, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand in gratitude.

With a wave of his free hand, Aziraphale dismissed the notion.

“We can talk about that later if you like, but not right now. It’s not important. What do you need now? Some breakfast, perhaps? A bath? A nap? A hug?” Aziraphale tried very hard not to emphasise any of the options, putting his own desires down at the bottom of the pile. Being a friend.

“Honestly, I could do with most of those,” Crowley admitted, he paused and looked away for a moment. When he spoke again it was with a carefully measured tone. “I haven’t eaten, and a bath might be just the thing to de-stress. But, if it’s not too much to ask,” he huffed a quiet laugh at himself before continuing, “could I have a hug first, please? Just for a moment?”

Before he could consider his actions, Aziraphale moved to sit beside Crowley on the sofa and opened his arms. Crowley’s hands slid around Aziraphale’s waist and his head came to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his face turned away. Running his hands up and down Crowley’s back in a slow, soothing motion, Aziraphale shifted his position to bring Crowley’s body closer. Hating himself for taking the liberty, Aziraphale buried his nose in Crowley’s hair and breathed him in.

“You’re alright, it’s OK. Everything will be OK,” Aziraphale murmured as he held Crowley to his chest.

After a minute or two, Crowley slowly separated them and eased himself away from Aziraphale’s embrace. It took all his willpower, but Aziraphale managed to hide the aching loss he felt when Crowley’s hands dropped from his waist and the contact was broken.

“Breakfast, then?” Aziraphale said with artificial brightness. “I’ve already eaten but I’ll happily whip you up something. What would you like?”

Crowley leaned back into the corner of the sofa and let his long arms spill lazily over the sides; the effect was similar to watching a drunken spider giving up on crawling out of the bathtub before the hangover has subsided.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Crowley said in a tone of voice that made it exceptionally clear that he was about to be a huge amount of trouble. “The chef at the Ritz always makes me a Monte Cristo sandwich and a fruit plate where all the fruit is cut to look like little animals. I think that would really help me feel a bit better.”

Aziraphale thought back to the bastardised eggs benedict he’d made two hours before and cursed his pride. He’d been stretching his abilities in the kitchen then; Crowley’s request was practically impossible. He wasn’t even sure what went into a Monte Cristo sandwich but he was pretty sure it was supposed to be deep-fried.

“Ah, right, yes,” Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face as he scrambled for an answer.

Crowley watched him flounder with an ever-widening grin, eventually cracking completely and giving in to delighted giggles. Aziraphale stared at him in uncomprehending confusion.

“Sorry, sorry, Aziraphale,” Crowley choked out between laughs, folding over in his delight. “Your face is a picture, though!” He took a deep breath and regained his composure although his smile stayed in place. “Something like toast would be wonderful, honestly. Horrible sense of humour, me, I know.”

Relaxing muscles that he had only just realised were tense, Aziraphale returned Crowley’s smile.

“It’s just as well, really,” he shot back. “You were putting a lot of faith in my cooking for a moment, there!” Aziraphale stood and tugged at his clothing, brushing out imaginary wrinkles. He picked up the empty mugs. “Another tea? Sit tight and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Safely alone in the kitchen, Aziraphale allowed himself to run through the emotions he’d been squashing down while Crowley told his story. Anger was chief amongst them, a white-hot fury that anyone could be treated so poorly by someone in a position of power and then have to see their abuser get away with it for so long. It made Aziraphale’s insides curdle into something ugly and poisonous. He could barely stand to think of it. It only hurt more to know that these things had happened to  _ Crowley _ , that he had been scared and manipulated into this situation. Crowley who had been sweet to Tracy, gracious with Aziraphale’s friends, funny and charming and unassuming in all of their dealings. Aziraphale wasn’t a violent man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but right then he really felt like he could have beaten the snot out of Lucas Morgenstern.

Shaking himself out of this melancholy mix of anger, sadness, and sympathy, Aziraphale refilled the kettle and stuck two slices of bread into the toaster. As he waited for the two elements to heat up, his eyes hit the fruit bowl and an idea occurred to him.

Three minutes later, Aziraphale carried two mugs of tea into the living room and rushed back to the kitchen with little more than a smile for Crowley. Two minutes after that, he returned and presented Crowley with a plate containing two slices of hot, buttered toast, cut diagonally, and a green apple carved into the shape of a swan. Aziraphale had even managed to get two of the pips to stick in place for the eyes.

“It’s not the Ritz, and it’s only toast, but here you are,” Aziraphale said as he set the plate onto the coffee table, avoiding looking at Crowley as he tried to maintain a straight face.

He sat back in the armchair, giving Crowley the option of space while he ate, and finally looked up to see Crowley’s reaction to the silly apple swan. He expected another laugh, or perhaps some teasing about his imperfect knife skills. Crowley just stared at the swan, his mouth slightly open.

“Is there something wrong?” Aziraphale asked quietly, shifting to the edge of his seat in concern.

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes like molten gold under a sheen of unshed tears that pooled along his lower lashes. His mouth was a thin, tight line. Aziraphale couldn’t work out what he’d done wrong.

“You made me an apple swan?” Crowley’s voice was small and unsure.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said as he twisted his fingers around each other in worry. “I had the apple, I thought it would be funny. I can take it away if you like.” He reached out for the carved fruit.

“Please don’t,” Crowley’s hand shot out to pull the plate closer to him and out of Aziraphale’s reach. “Why are you so kind to me?”

“It’s nothing, Crowley, really. I thought it might cheer you up, make you smile.”

Crowley took his phone out once more and snapped a couple of photos of the apple swan.

“Thank you, Aziraphale, for everything.” With that said, Crowley picked up a slice of toast and started to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who said Aziraphale should leave Crowley on the doorstep, how you feelin' now?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're earning our E rating in this chapter, folks. There's a page break above and below so you can skip it if you like. 
> 
> Time to get some answers! And more kisses! 
> 
> Big update, I hope you all like it!

When, in the far off future, he looked back on that first day they spent together, Aziraphale could never pick a favourite of the many memories he made. Even when he was in the darkest parts of his despair, Aziraphale couldn’t ever find a single fault in that day.

After clearing away the things from Crowley’s breakfast, Aziraphale ran a hot bath and found a clean towel in the airing cupboard. He spent the duration of Crowley’s bath tidying the flat as best he could and distinctly _not_ thinking about Crowley being naked in his bathroom. Behind a door that didn’t lock. It was better to put that kind of energy into undoing Shadwell’s influence which had been creeping all over the flat. Crowley had already seen the place, but Aziraphale reasoned there was no harm in trying to make the place a bit more presentable.

Knowing it was several kinds of presumptuous, Aziraphale changed the sheets on his bed. There was a chance that Crowley might want to stay the night rather than return to his hotel and this seemed like the kind of thing a good host would do, not asking a guest to sleep in used sheets. Aziraphale told himself repeatedly that just because Crowley had been interested last time, there was no reason to think he had any feelings left in that direction. Just because Aziraphale had felt a violent reignition of his attraction and affection from the moment Crowley had turned up on his doorstep, it didn’t mean that Crowley was considering anything more than friendship. It was foolish and selfish to hope for anything from a man who had come to him in need of help and safety.

He was still straightening things up in the bedroom when Crowley emerged from the bathroom. Crowley wandered in to find him with his hair hanging in damp waves about his face and his thin shirt clinging to the lines of his body. Aziraphale swallowed and tore his eyes away, trying to ignore the desperate racing of his heart as he finished putting his clean laundry in the wardrobe.

Behind him, he heard the faint squeak of bedsprings as Crowley sat down. Crowley was sitting on his bed, having just been naked in his bathroom. Too much of Aziraphale’s mind wanted to focus on the multitude of implications that Crowley’s simple action could hint at. He was struggling to keep a clear head.

“That,” Crowley said after a moment, “is a _lot_ of tartan.”

Aziraphale turned, already knowing what he’d see when his gaze hit Crowley. With a sort of mocking grin and sparkling eyes, Crowley was staring right at Aziraphale’s research bookcase. When the ground refused to answer his request to open up and swallow him whole, Aziraphale steeled himself to witness the death of any spark that had existed between them.

“It’s my research,” Aziraphale began, slow and awkward. “I’m writing a book about the history and significance of tartan through the ages.”

“Are you really?” Crowley asked with what almost sounded like genuine interest.

“Yes, really,” Aziraphale looked from Crowley to the bookcase and back again, unsure if he was being mocked or not. “I think it’s fascinating, the cultural importance of marking people as part of a family, belonging together. This visual signifier that that’s your person, they’re in your clan, and you keep them safe. I don’t know, it means something to me.”

Crowley was watching him with an unreadable expression; Aziraphale felt very exposed for a reason that he couldn’t articulate. With the grace of a ballet dancer, Crowley kicked his bare feet up onto the bed and lay back with his hands locked behind his head.

“I’m Scottish, did you know?” Crowley offered casually as if he hadn’t just draped himself over Aziraphale’s bed.

“I- uh, yes. I did know that, actually,” Aziraphale said, fighting a cringe. “You moved away with your family as a child which is why you don’t have the accent.”

Despite Aziraphale’s fears of overstepping a mark he couldn’t see, Crowley smiled warmly.

“That’s right, although when I’m very tired or drunk you can still hear it a bit.” Crowley winked as he spoke.

Aziraphale felt like he’d been handed a sliver of Crowley’s soul, something small and secret that other people didn’t get to see. He watched Crowley stretch and sit back up, looking a bit self-conscious for having taken such a liberty with Aziraphale’s bed. Aziraphale turned back to his bookcase and touched a picture of a tartan ribbon.

“Is there a Crowley family tartan?” he asked, trying to maintain some semblance of control over the conversation.

“Yeah, there is,” Crowley said from just behind Aziraphale, startling him. “Well, we’re affiliated with a clan at least. I’ve got a kilt and the whole kit somewhere at home.”

“I’d like to see that some time,” Aziraphale said without thinking. He caught himself too late and sagged at the shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so, I don’t know, suggestive.”

Crowley laughed and patted Aziraphale kindly on the shoulder before moving closer to the bookshelf and examining some of the materials.

“I never really thought about how much depth there was to this stuff,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “I know all the stuff about only wearing the tartan of your clan, or tartan you’ve been given as a gift, but actual meaning in the colours and patterns? That’s all new to me.”

Aziraphale happily gave a very abridged version of his theories about colour usage in traditional tartans, watching Crowley’s face for any sign of boredom or irritation. There weren’t many people who could tolerate hearing about Aziraphale’s weird little hobby for long. He showed Crowley his print of the first colour photograph ever taken, a tartan ribbon tied into a rosette, and gave his opinion on the trademark status of the _Burberry Check_. His impromptu lecture was only cut short by the intercom buzzer and not by Crowley’s flagging interest. Aziraphale was honestly delighted and flattered by the genuine attention.

“Ah, that might be for me,” Crowley said cryptically, following Aziraphale out to the hallway. The little screen showed a man in a dark suit holding a bag and a guitar case. “I called the hotel to ask them to bring my stuff over, they’re still under siege there. I hoped I might impose on you until tomorrow? Sorry, I should have asked first.”

Trying desperately to hide his pleasure at the news, Aziraphale searched for the right combination of words to express an appropriate reaction.

“Oh, you really are quite welcome,” Aziraphale managed to say before the moment completely passed. He reached for the handset. “Hello? Yes, you’re at the right place. First floor, if you please.”

Crowley moved to the door and, with a careful glance at Aziraphale, opened it to wait for the man to come up the single flight of stairs.

There was something intoxicating about seeing Crowley at ease in Aziraphale’s home, something that plucked at Aziraphale’s deepest heartstrings, the ones that frozen with disuse since long before Sandy had left. An unbidden, unwelcome thought arose about what it might be like to see Crowley exist and move through a space that they shared. Aziraphale banished it as quickly as it had risen, but the lingering feeling still warmed him.

“Here, let me help,” Aziraphale offered, holding out a hand to Crowley who was struggling to get a grip on his bag.

Hefting the bag easily onto his shoulder, Aziraphale knocked the door closed and led Crowley back into the living room. He thought for just a moment that he heard Crowley make an appreciative noise under his breath, but dismissed it as a sound from the door or the street. There was no reason for Crowley to make that sort of a noise and imagining it would only distract Aziraphale again.

“I was supposed to be flying to New York tomorrow for some talk show stuff,” Crowley said as they reached the living room again. “S’why the bag’s so heavy. Gotta pack a bunch of outfits for these things.”

“They’re still keeping you busy then?” Aziraphale asked as casually as he could.

Now that the initial emotional fallout appeared to have passed, he could allow himself that curiosity about what had happened when they’d last been together, how that night had gone from intense kisses in the lift to a cold brush-off at the door. He decided to trust that Crowley would volunteer the explanation in his own time.

“Heh, yeah. Always non-stop, me,” Crowley said as he flopped back onto the sofa and pulled the guitar case across his lap. “One good thing about all this drama,” he waved a hand dismissively to indicate the entire outside world, “is that all my press obligations have been cancelled.”

Aziraphale slid into the armchair and watched Crowley pull an acoustic guitar out of the case and check the tuning. After a minute, Crowley seemed to register that he was being watched and looked at Aziraphale.

“Nervous habit, I suppose,” he nodded down at the guitar in his lap. “Like to keep my hands occupied as much as possible.” He looked down at the guitar and then up at Aziraphale again. “And... I still owe you that explanation.”

Aziraphale sat back from the edge of his seat and shook his head firmly.

“No, no, you don’t _owe_ me anything.” Aziraphale was careful with his emphasis, not wanting to push but still willing to hear Crowley out.

Setting the guitar on the seat beside him, Crowley twisted to face Aziraphale fully so that their knees were almost touching.

“Maybe I don’t owe you it, but I’d feel a lot better if you let me try. Entirely selfish reasons, of course,” Crowley grinned and Aziraphale found himself nodding. Encouraged, Crowley continued. “The end of that night was such a mess and I am _truly_ sorry for the way I treated you. I shouldn’t have said what I did and it was incredibly rude of me. I know that I hurt you.”

“It’s in the past, Crowley,” Aziraphale interjected. “You really don’t need to put yourself through this.”

“I think that I do, maybe not to make it right but just to, oh, I don’t know. Repair our friendship?” Crowley looked conflicted, his mouth twisted as if to hold back words he wasn’t ready to say. Aziraphale cursed the hopeful sparks in his chest that saw Crowley’s conflict and hoped for something deeper than friendship. Clearing his throat, Crowley looked down at his hands before continuing. “You had the great displeasure of meeting my now-ex manager, Gabriel: the biggest arsehole that America has ever produced. He’s the man who has been running my life for the past, oh, three years.” Crowley paused, looking up at Aziraphale as if he expected to be interrupted. 

There were a thousand things that Aziraphale wanted to ask but they all died in his throat, all but the one thing he was afraid to ask.

“Why did you lie, though?” Aziraphale heard himself ask, the words slipping out before he could bite them back. “And why didn’t I hear from you afterwards?” In for a penny, in for a pound.

A flicker of surprise showed on Crowley’s face, widening his eyes and dropping his jaw just a fraction.

“I didn’t hear from you either!” He spluttered before getting himself back under control. “I’m sorry, sorry. That’s not the point. God, the worst part is that I came clean to Gabriel the minute you were gone. I knew I’d have to tell him about the scene I made at the restaurant and the lies were just so stupid. I panicked and it wasn’t fair to you. Afterwards, I knew that you had every right to be mad at me and I talked myself out of calling you a hundred times. I thought that if I gave you space, then you might come around. But I had all the facts and you didn’t. Fuck, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.” 

As Crowley’s face fell further with each realisation, Aziraphale watched him connect reality and his assumptions and find the worst conclusion. Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond, he didn’t know what was currently on the table, and he wouldn’t take advantage of Crowley’s vulnerability by trying for physical contact. Especially knowing now what Crowley had been through.

“It’s in the past, don’t fret over it now. Can’t change what’s already been,” Aziraphale said, offering a smile. “For what it’s worth, I was scared to contact you. Wondered if I’d already had more than I was allowed.”

Aziraphale laughed at himself then, a small self-effacing chuckle that he’d intended to lighten the mood. He did not expect Crowley to flop back onto the sofa and stare at the ceiling with vacant eyes, finally covering his face with both hands and moaning loudly.

“I’m the worst. I made you think that you weren’t good enough for me, which is just, ugh,” Crowley sounded distraught as he addressed the ceiling. “I ruin everything.”

“Don’t talk like that, please,” Aziraphale nearly begged, unable to handle the sight of this beautiful man falling apart on his couch. “Nothing is ruined, is it? Look, you’re here now and we’re friends, aren’t we? That’s a good thing to be.”

Slowly, Crowley let his hands drop to his sides and lifted his head, Aziraphale watched him pull himself together and staunchly refused to read anything into his dismay at past mistakes.

“More tea?” Aziraphale offered once Crowley had largely recovered from his dramatics.

“Only if it means that you’ve accepted my apology, although it was a mess of an apology at that.”

“Apology accepted, of course. Of course,” Aziraphale pushed himself up out of the armchair and patted Crowley on the shoulder, feeling a little bolder after everything that had transpired that morning. “After all, you lost a manager over me, right?” He couldn’t help teasing.

Crowley laughed.

“After that night, I had a chat with the rest of the band about how involved management were in their lives and, well, it was illuminating for me. Gabriel wanted to turn me into something I don’t want to be so I fired him.”

“Ah, not for me then, I shall have to put getting a man fired back on the bucket list,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you, you’re what made the difference.”

That was just a touch too real and exposing for Aziraphale to cope with right then, so he gave Crowley’s shoulder a squeeze and carried on his way into the kitchen.

He used the ritual of tea making to centre himself again, to process what he could and pack away what he couldn’t for consideration when Crowley wasn’t actively in his living room.

The sound of gentle guitar music filtered through into the kitchen, something light and slow that lifted Aziraphale’s heart. He carried the two mugs back through and put Crowley’s in front of him without a word, trying not to interrupt the melody that Crowley was coaxing from the guitar.

Closing his eyes and leaning back in the armchair, Aziraphale listened with a small smile tugging at his lips. Crowley switched to a different tune, one that sparked something in Aziraphale’s memory. He didn’t fully recognise it until Crowley began singing. He was soft and almost self-conscious, singing to himself lyrics that Aziraphale knew he would have heard screamed back at him by hundreds of thousands of voices. Here, in a small Soho flat, Crowley played purely for the joy of it and Aziraphale was given the privilege of witnessing it.

As the final chord faded, Aziraphale opened his eyes and found Crowley looking at him with an indescribably fond expression.

“Is this alright?” Crowley asked, his fingers idly plucking the strings.

“Yes, please, don’t stop.”

This time, when Crowley began playing, Aziraphale watched his hands. His long fingers moved effortlessly along the fretboard, describing patterns that Aziraphale couldn’t comprehend. His other hand plucked and strummed in turns, sometimes picking at individual strings and others setting them all thrumming in resonance. 

There was something so inherently mesmerising and erotic about watching Crowley’s competence with a guitar, the way he didn’t even seem to think about what his hands were doing as he played. Aziraphale shifted in his seat, trying to subtly subdue the evidence of his distraction. For his part, Crowley appeared to be lost in his music, relaxing more with every minute that passed.

“Any requests?” Crowley asked after a while of aimless playing.

“Oh, well, I don’t really know...” Aziraphale trailed off. He did know a lot of _The Demons_ material, but he didn’t know which songs would work on a single acoustic guitar, and he didn’t want to ask for a song that Crowley was rusty on.

“You must have a favourite!” Crowley teased and then blanched. “That’s so egotistical of me, isn’t it? Fuck, I am so bad at just being a normal person.”

“No, no, you’re right! I do have a favourite! I’m just enjoying hearing you play whatever you fancy. Why don’t you play me something you think I’d like best?” Aziraphale hurried to try and smooth over Crowley’s burst of doubt.

“Hmm, I can do that,” Crowley mused as he picked up his tea. “I don’t think you’d like our really early stuff, it doesn’t seem your speed.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale with a knowing nod. “Bebop.”

Crowley had a mouthful of tea that he was suddenly struggling to keep contained. Aziraphale could only watch with barely contained laughter as Crowley’s eyes grew wide and his cheeks puffed out. His face turned pink from the effort of holding in the combination of tea and giggles and that only made Aziraphale laugh all the more. Fishing a tissue from a box on the coffee table, Aziraphale held it out to Crowley to help with the dribble of tea wetting his lips.

With a deep breath, Crowley managed to regain control and swallow his tea without any more theatrics. He dabbed his mouth with the tissue and gave Aziraphale a wary look.

“I don’t even know where to begin with what you just said,” Crowley gasped at last, still barely controlling his breathing.

His eyes were shining brightly, Aziraphale thought he could detect a hint of challenge in the line of his mouth and the lift of his eyebrows. Breaking eye contact to look down at his hands for a moment, Aziraphale gathered himself to meet Crowley’s teasing.

“It’s my prerogative to be wrong about music,” Aziraphale said confidently, finding Crowley’s eyes once more. “It’s one of the benefits of being a bookseller, I’d say. I can say all kinds of stupid things about music and it doesn’t make any difference!”

Crowley grinned so widely that his eyes crinkled in a disarmingly attractive way.

“I can see that your education has been sorely lacking, you’re lucky I’m here to help set you right.”

Aziraphale took a sip of tea to try and hide his pleasure at the implication that Crowley was hoping to be a longer-term fixture in his life.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” he said, still beaming his happiness.

Having been idle for too long, Crowley’s hands began moving across the guitar with purpose once more. Aziraphale recognised the opening chords of _The Fall_ , the song that he would have named as his favourite if pushed. Briefly, he wondered how Crowley had known but that thought soon flitted away as Crowley began to sing.

It was like he’d never heard the song before. The meaning and feeling all felt altered so drastically as Crowley slowed the tempo and sang it simply. Just his voice and a guitar, telling a story of pain and loss- the emotion so much closer to the surface and all that much more raw for it. Aziraphale knew that he was witnessing something truly special.

“How was that?” Crowley asked, setting the guitar aside.

Aziraphale tried to ignore the hopeful tone in Crowley’s voice, the edge that belied his deep need for validation and acceptance. It was too exposed, too intimate to acknowledge without crossing a boundary that he felt sure must exist. He swallowed down his own wants and instead hid behind an enthusiastic and genuine smile.

“It was remarkable, truly,” he said, making no effort to conceal how deeply he’d enjoyed the performance whilst trying to hide the way his heart was battering the inside of his ribcage. “I’ve long admired that particular song but that, _oh Crowley_ , that was like I was hearing it for the first time again.”

His praise seemed to hit the right spot as Crowley’s face split into a grin so wide and open that Aziraphale was near blinded by the joy of it. A moment later, the grin faded into something a little more guarded, something with a touch of shyness and humility.

“S’good of you to say,” Crowley said with a small shrug like he was trying to roll the praise off his shoulders.

Aziraphale simply wasn’t equipped to meet the complex needs of a world-famous musician’s ego. Instead of rising to a losing challenge, he clapped his hands decisively and pushed himself to his feet.

“I should give you the tour, such as it is, see if we can’t get you settled in a tad,” Aziraphale said as he bent to pick up Crowley’s bag from beside the sofa.

“Right, sure. Uh, lead the way.” Crowley stood somewhat hesitantly, his hand tight around the neck of his guitar where he held it at his side like a kind of safety blanket.

The flat was like so many of its kind in central London; small, oddly-shaped, prone to noise from the street, and vastly overvalued. The building had one feature that was rather unusual and had been what had drawn Aziraphale to it all those years ago. He left this hidden gem to last, first taking Crowley quickly through the kitchen, bedrooms, bathroom and realising that Crowley had already seen the vast majority of the space. 

Smiling at Crowley’s puzzled look, Aziraphale ushered him out of the flat and up two more flights of stairs where he slid open a tall sash window and climbed out onto the roof. Still looking dubious, Crowley folded his long limbs through the window and stepped out onto the roof, guitar in hand as if it was a natural extension of his arm.

Beyond the window, the roof opened up into a terrace with a table and chairs, sunshade, and a small firepit, all contained by iron railings and a lush border of flowering plants. It was a small oasis in the middle of London’s grime and bustle. Aziraphale watched Crowley look about the space, an expression of surprise spreading across his beautiful face.

“This is not what I expected,” Crowley admitted slowly. “Can we stay up here a while? I think this is exactly the kind of peace I needed to find today.”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny him even if he’d wanted to. Just before they settled on the terrace, he showed Crowley the trick to lock the sash window from the outside to keep them from being interrupted by any of the other residents. It was a bit cheeky, he knew, but Crowley deserved the privacy. 

Aziraphale only left their personal paradise to fetch up some lunch and a bottle of wine which they shared slowly through the afternoon. Crowley kept playing his guitar throughout the day, softly plucking absent melodies as they chatted, sometimes playing full songs in his hauntingly beautiful style.

“The really stupid thing, the thing that bothers me the most,” Crowley was saying, his right hand strumming even as his left lifted the wineglass to his lips for a mid-sentence sip, “is that I know that Morgenstern can’t hurt me now. The band, my reputation, that’s all established and- if I can say this without sounding like a mad egotist- we’re bigger than him now.”

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing a mouthful of wine so he could answer.

“Rationally, you can know that and still feel anxious or scared about it,” Aziraphale said carefully, watching Crowley for his reaction.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I know,” Crowley sighed and pressed his lips into a thin line for a moment. “The press aren’t going to let this lie, though. Shame I can’t hide out here forever, really.”

Despite seeing Crowley’s wry smile, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to believe the flirtatious nature of Crowley’s tone.

“Stay as long as you need, and I do mean that, Crowley.”

A moment of warmth and affection seemed to pass between them; Aziraphale was doing a horrible job of keeping his heart protected from a second battering.

“Oh, I know an early one you’ll like!” Crowley changed tack on a whim and resettled his guitar across his lap before launching into a rendition of _Starmaker_ that rivalled the beauty of birdsong and ocean sunsets. 

“Is this the sort of thing you prefer to play?” Aziraphale asked after Crowley had finished his song. “Acoustic and soulful rather than the hard-rocking stuff?”

“‘Hard rocking’? You’re a nightmare, honestly,” Crowley’s eyes creased with the width of his smile. “I mean, I love our music, I love our process, and I love my band. But yeah, I guess sometimes I just want to tell a story with just my voice and a guitar. Lose all the frills and get right back to the basics.”

Aziraphale nodded and poured them each a little more wine; the bottle was almost empty and he had a pleasant feeling of being fuzzy around the edges.

“Well, I like hearing your songs this way,” Aziraphale said into his wineglass, finding his cheeks a touch warmer than he could account for with wine and sunshine.

“You think I should branch out? Try a solo career on the side?” Crowley leaned over the body of his guitar, his arms resting across it as he sought Aziraphale’s eye contact. The need for approval was so clear in Crowley’s face that Aziraphale felt massively underqualified for the moment.

“You are marvellous, in everything you do. People would eat this up if you chose to pursue it, I’m sure,” Aziraphale tried to be both positive and non-committal. The last thing he needed was Crowley making career decisions based on things _he_ said.

A frantic knocking at the window broke their fragile peace, Aziraphale groaned and went to see what was causing the disruption.

Shadwell held up a hand from the other side of the glass and motioned for Aziraphale to open the window.

“Someone ‘round ‘ere is playin’ some great acoustic versions of Demons songs and I were thinkin’ maybe I could listen better from ‘ere,” Shadwell said as he climbed through the window, “You been hearin’ ‘em?”

“Ah, well. About that,” Aziraphale started, trying to keep between Shadwell and Crowley.

“Oh,” said Shadwell as Crowley came into view, momentarily losing what tenuous grasp of sensibility he’d previously possessed.

“Hi, you must be Shadwell,” Crowley smiled in that way that put people at ease and, oh, Aziraphale loved him. 

The realisation smacked him in the chest and head simultaneously. When had that happened? What was he going to do about it? He couldn’t let on to Crowley, not when there was a chance that this friendship could be real.

Shadwell broke him out of his spiralling with a sputtering and strangled string of almost-expletives. Aziraphale gripped Shadwell’s arms and began to back him away from Crowley, encouraging him gently towards the window. 

“Perhaps you’d better head back downstairs, hmm?” Aziraphale suggested, trying to stay on the right side of polite. “Maybe you can make yourself scarce tonight as well?”

“What? Oh! Ye mean..? No!” Shadwell sounded scandalised as he put together the puzzle pieces of Aziraphale’s meaning, his head spinning from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again.

Aziraphale felt an intensely hot blush spread from his ears to his chest as Shadwell managed to express his unique combination of shock, horror, admiration, and suggestiveness with just a few glances and a disjointed collection of syllables. Crowley lifted an eyebrow in amusement, adding to Aziraphale’s growing embarrassment. 

“I’m not sure I like the way you’re suggesting what I infer you are implying,” Aziraphale inwardly cringed, still trying to urge Shadwell out of the garden.

“Oh, aye, o’ course,” Shadwell gave a knowing and not at all discreet wink as he allowed himself to be shepherded back towards the window. Just as Aziraphale nudged him against the windowsill, Shadwell’s grin turned conspiratorial. “Nice one, fella. Bet he’s a devil in th’ sack! See if ye cannae get me an autograph?”

“Go!” Aziraphale insisted, giving Shadwell’s shoulder a bit of a shove. 

Watching his flatmate clamber back through the window, Aziraphale took a moment to try and calm himself. Shadwell had made things awkward and his own personal realisation had doubled the problems. 

“I’m so sorry about that,” Aziraphale said as he returned to Crowley’s side, hoping fervently that the awkwardness was at least mostly in his head. “The current leading theory is that Shadwell is the result of a secret government breeding program between haggis and fag butts.”

Crowley snorted a laugh and clapped his hand over his mouth to contain any further outbursts, his eyes wide and sparkling. The reaction allowed Aziraphale to relax a little- at least Crowley wasn’t packing up to leave in disgust.

“What a thing to say!” Crowley said between his fingers.

“Well, it’s either that or a pile of waxed jacket and dirty neck scarves became sentient and started immediately coming up with excuses not to pay rent on time,” Aziraphale shrugged as he offered an alternative, careful to keep his voice light. For all that he complained, Shadwell was one of those irritants that added colour to Aziraphale’s world. He didn’t want Crowley to think that he actually disliked the man.

“Bit of a character, is he?” Crowley asked with a look that practically begged for gossip.

“You could say that, yes,” Aziraphale considered his available options before deciding on total honesty. “You know, he claims to be part of the Witchfinder Army? He says they were never officially disbanded. He’s not actually tried to burn anyone, that I know of, but I do try to keep him away from my sister.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Crowley said, his voice a thrilling combination of dry wit and playful teasing. Judging by the way his stomach twisted itself into knots, Aziraphale was in serious trouble.

Clearing his throat and glancing down to hide the pleased blush that was colouring his cheeks, Aziraphale did his best to gather himself and find a safe conversation topic.

“It’s starting to get late,” Aziraphale lied, knowing it wasn’t yet 7 pm, “could I tempt you to some dinner?”

Crowley smiled, slow and lazy, his fingers idly plucking at his guitar strings once more.

“Temptation accomplished.”

After allowing enough time to pass for Shadwell to have taken himself off for the night, Crowley followed Aziraphale back down to the flat and lurked on the periphery of the kitchen making frequent offers of help while Aziraphale threw together a basic spaghetti bolognese. It was nice, Aziraphale reflected after apologising for serving sauce from a jar for the third time, to have someone appear to enjoy spending time with him with no other motive. Of course, he had his friends and Tracy, but something about this felt different, this was just being happy in each other’s company. He was afraid he liked it rather too much.

With food, another bottle of wine, and eventually ice cream shared out of a single tub, the evening passed in reassuring comfort. It felt to Aziraphale as though they had spent countless nights in this fashion, sitting beside each other on a sofa, laughing at a bad shark movie, teasing each other about who was eating the most ice cream. It was the kind of happy domesticity that Aziraphale had always yearned for.

“It’s late,” Crowley said, at last, having drained the last of his wineglass.

“Goodness, it is,” Aziraphale conceded and began to stand. “I’ll fetch the spare bedding out of my room and then you can get settled. Do you need anything before bed?”

Crowley unfolded his legs from where he’d been sitting on them and rose to follow Aziraphale to the bedroom.

“No, I’ll just brush my teeth while you’re getting sorted.”

They moved around each other with only mild flashes of awkwardness. Crowley shifted his bag onto the bed as Aziraphale pulled the spare duvet down from the top of the wardrobe and stumbled backwards, bumping their backs together. 

“Sorry!” Aziraphale giggled, the wine having got the better of him a little while ago. He caught a glance of Crowley digging around in the dark recesses of his bag and was struck by an observation. “Do you own anything that isn’t black?”

Crowley snorted and fixed Aziraphale with a slightly unfocused glare.

“Why? Have they found a darker colour?” 

Helpless to his giggles again, Aziraphale laid a hand on Crowley’s forearm and held it gently.

“Sorry, yes, of course,” he said through his laughter, “the mean and brooding rock star couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of wearing anything other than the darkest black possible.”

Crowley swatted him with the back of one hand, baring his teeth and looking about as threatening as a goldfish.

“You’re rotten to me, Aziraphale,” he chided unconvincingly, his eyes sparkling at the tease.

The air felt heavy with potential and Aziraphale dropped his hand from Crowley’s arm. The tip of Crowley’s tongue slipped out to wet his lips and Aziraphale knew he had to make a hard choice. He wasn’t drunk exactly, but he wasn’t sober either and that was enough of a distinction. Taking a half step away from Crowley, Aziraphale smiled brightly. 

“If you need anything in the night, I’ll just be on the sofa so feel free to wake me,” he said, sounding as certain as he could. “Do try to avoid Shadwell if you can, though, I can’t promise that he’s up to date on his shots.”

Crowley’s answering smile was kind but reserved; the moment had been lost and Aziraphale could breathe again. He wouldn’t be able to live with being Crowley’s drunken regret.

After a quick goodnight, Aziraphale returned to the living room and made up the sofa for the night, telling himself that he’d made the right choice. After hearing Crowley leave the bathroom, he went to brush his teeth and undress down to his underwear and a plain t-shirt, most decidedly not thinking about Crowley climbing into Aziraphale’s own bed.

He was almost asleep, after what had felt like hours of trying to get comfortable and internally screaming about his emotional predicament, when the front door opened and Shadwell stumbled in. Pulling the duvet over his head, Aziraphale stifled a groan and willed Shadwell to pass by and just go to bed. Then he altered his wish as Shadwell bumbled about the kitchen, clattering around for something that apparently required the fridge to be opened seven times. If he could just hurry up and not wake Crowley, that would be fine.

Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by a disturbing slurping noise that signalled some kind of success in Shadwell’s ransacking of the kitchen.

“Oi,” Shadwell’s voice came with a prod in the ribs that made Aziraphale wriggle his head free of the duvet so he could complain. “Wotchu doin’ out ‘ere?”

“I am trying to sleep, that should be obvious, even to you,” Aziraphale replied, snippy with tiredness but keeping his voice low.

“Oh, aye,” Shadwell said before taking another slurping bite of whatever culinary disaster he had created. “Just wondrin’ why yer doin’ it out ‘ere and no in yer bed.”

“Crowley’s in there, if you must know,” Aziraphale said, sitting up and holding a finger to his lips to implore Shadwell to limit his noise-making.

“Oh, right. Oh! _Oh!”_ Shadwell’s voice went through several indescribable emotions. “Seems t’me, if anyone were t’ask, you’re missing a golden opportunity.”

Even in the dark, Aziraphale could make out the complicated and suggestive movements of Shadwell’s eyebrows.

“The man came to me in need, Shadwell. I’m not going to take advantage of that!” Aziraphale whispered his indignance.

“Aye... aye, fair enough,” he sounded thoughtful and Aziraphale saw him scratch his chin. He started to walk towards his bedroom before turning back, his finger raised in question.

“What?” Aziraphale hissed.

“D’ya think he’d mind if I went in t’ask for that autograph?” There was only sincerity in the question which, Aziraphale thought, was probably worse than making a joke.

“Don’t you dare disturb him, I absolutely will kick you out if you make a pest of yourself.”

Shadwell held up both his hands in surrender, one still clutching the gastronomic nightmare that Aziraphale refused to look at. With that, he retreated down the hallway and disappeared into his room. Aziraphale lay back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, reflecting on how it had happened that he was spending the second consecutive night sleeping on a sofa.

Less than two minutes later, a door creaked open at the end of the hallway and footsteps began to creep towards the living room.

“Go away,” Aziraphale said in little more than a stage whisper, irritation and exhaustion colouring his voice.

“Oh, OK. Sorry,” said Crowley.

“No, wait!” Aziraphale sat bolt upright to see Crowley beginning to turn away. “I thought you were Shadwell, I’m sorry. Did you need something?”

He watched Crowley hesitate, rocking from one foot to the other before taking a step forward towards Aziraphale.

“Uh, well, you see, I was- umm, well, that is to say-” Crowley stammered through a string of nonsense, running one long-fingered hand through his hair in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat. He shook his head and took a few more steps towards the sofa. “You, if you’d like. I think I need you.”

Crowley held out his hand in offering and even in the darkness of the room, Aziraphale could see the hope in his eyes.

Aziraphale reached up and let Crowley’s fingers close around his but made no move to stand yet.

“Are- are you sure?” Aziraphale heard his own vulnerability laid bare but before he could regret it, Crowley nodded and tugged gently on his hand.

Without another word, Aziraphale stood and let Crowley lead him into his own bedroom.

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind them, Crowley’s lips were on Aziraphale’s, hungry and seeking. His arms draped over Aziraphale’s shoulders and drew him closer as Aziraphale found his hands taking hold of Crowley’s hips. Kissing Crowley was everything that Aziraphale remembered and so much more as well; he couldn’t get enough of the taste of Crowley’s mouth, the feeling of Crowley’s tongue against his lips, the whimpery little moans that seemed to be coming from both of them in equal measure. 

Aziraphale stepped forward with one foot, urging Crowley back towards the bed. His thigh pressed between Crowley’s making the heat of his arousal so very clear against Aziraphale’s skin. For a moment, Crowley pressed his hips into Aziraphale and rubbed the hard length of his cock between them. Before Aziraphale could begin to process that reality, Crowley was falling back onto the bed, pulling Aziraphale down with him, the kiss never breaking.

With a minor adjustment of limbs, Aziraphale found himself straddling Crowley’s hips and kissing him down into the pillows. Their combined arousal was fire-hot and insistent, urging each other on until Aziraphale felt that he might combust if he didn’t get his hands on Crowley’s skin soon.

He tugged at the hem of Crowley’s black t-shirt and let his fingers slip underneath for the briefest touch.

“Can I take this off?” Aziraphale asked against Crowley’s mouth.

“Yes, fuck, please,” Crowley’s reply was enthusiastic and coupled with an upward roll of his hips.

Aziraphale stripped the shirt off him and dropped it beside the bed. Crowley’s hands slid up his back, pulling his own shirt off in kind and flinging it away. Their hips moved in an eager rhythm together, all animal want and barely controlled hunger. Aziraphale could climax from this alone and not regret a moment of it.

He pulled away from their kisses just long enough to take in the full spectacle of Crowley lying beneath him. His hair fanned out on the pillow and Aziraphale wanted to sink his hands into it. His shoulders were strong and broad, surprisingly so, Aziraphale thought as he let his fingers trail along Crowley’s collarbones. His arms were muscled yet slender, a theme that continued down Crowley’s chest where strength was visible against the faint outlines of his ribs and the flat, firm stretch of his belly.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered, too awestruck to notice the way Crowley’s hands were moving up his sides, caressing the curve of his stomach.

“Yeah,” Crowley appeared to agree, “just gorgeous.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley’s face and was immediately grateful for every iota of ambient light bleeding in from the street. Crowley looked as caught up in the moment as Aziraphale felt, an awed expression taking over as his eyes followed the path traced by his fingertips on Aziraphale’s skin.

No one had ever looked at Aziraphale like that before, like he was something precious and desirable, like he was giving a priceless gift in allowing himself to be touched. Crowley was looking at him just like this and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with the way it made him feel.

Leaning forward for another kiss, Aziraphale rolled himself off Crowley to lie beside him, winding one arm around Crowley’s waist to bring their bodies flush. Slowly, gingerly, he let his other hand trail up Crowley’s neck, cup his jaw, and then slide back into his hair. When Crowley moaned into Aziraphale’s mouth, he took the encouragement and dragged his fingers through the length of it again and again. Truly, there could be nothing better than holding Crowley to him and kissing him breathless.

“I want you,” Crowley whispered, starting to ease Aziraphale’s underwear down. “Can I have you?”

Arousal twisted, dark and desperate, in Aziraphale’s gut. He stamped it down and pulled away, just a fraction. He needed to see Crowley’s face before letting this go any further.

“Are you sure? I need you to be sure, Crowley,” Aziraphale kissed him to soften the questions before continuing. “I’m ready to give you everything you want, but we’ve been drinking and you’ve had a strange day. I-” he swallowed down an ugly emotion and breathed deep, “I couldn’t cope with being something you regret.”

Crowley’s eyes flickered over his face, searching for something, although Aziraphale couldn’t say what.

“How are you real?” Crowley asked in a small voice, his eyes wide. “Please, I’m sure. Please don’t make me ask again.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, doing his damnedest to knock away any fears that Crowley might have had with the ferocity of his want. He loved Crowley- despite all the reasons that it was a bad idea, the many ways that they shouldn’t fit together, Aziraphale loved him.

Crowley wriggled out of his boxer briefs and tugged impatiently at Aziraphale’s until they were both fully nude, hard and hot against each other. When Crowley’s fingers closed around his cock, Aziraphale thought he might climax right there and then. He bucked his hips into Crowley’s hand and moaned far more loudly than he’d intended. Eager to catch up as well as needing a distraction to keep from spilling all over Crowley’s hand, Aziraphale buried one hand back in Crowley’s silky hair and gripped a fistful. His other hand worked between their bodies, reaching for Crowley’s cock and still expecting to be slapped away from reaching his goal.

Instead, Crowley gasped and whimpered at the merest brush of Aziraphale’s fingers against his erection. Taking him in hand more firmly, Aziraphale explored the length with careful strokes. Crowley filled his hand so well, like he was made to fit there. Aziraphale’s thoughts were running away with him.

“How do you want me?” Crowley asked eventually, his voice whispery and breathless. He made to roll onto his front, pulling away from Aziraphale.

“Oh, darling, no,” Aziraphale’s arm shot out to wrap around Crowley and hold him still. “I want to see you, and I- oh, you’re so beautiful, I need this to be _different_.”

He knew too well now how Crowley had given away parts of himself against his will. He could see the transactional approach that Crowley had adopted to protect himself, Aziraphale refused to play a part in that.

“You don’t want to, _you know_?” Crowley would have shrunk away if Aziraphale hadn’t been holding him so tightly, that much was clear.

“I do, desperately, I do. But not tonight. Let me take care of you like you deserve,” Aziraphale was almost pleading but he couldn’t be ashamed of it. He leaned in and put his lips to Crowley’s ear. “I would still very much like to _fuck you into the mattress_ in the future, if that’s not too presumptuous.”

Crowley groaned and writhed, smothering Aziraphale’s face and neck in quick kisses all at once.

“Only you could make ‘presumptuous’ sound like a dirty word, I swear. Why do I like you so much?” Crowley teased, no bite in his voice. “I’m at your mercy, Aziraphale.”

Content that they were on the same page, Aziraphale pressed Crowley back with a kiss until he was lying flat and Aziraphale could straddle his thighs. Taking his time, he kissed down the length of Crowley’s torso, tasting the salt of his skin with subtle touches of his tongue. With one hand, he stroked Crowley’s side in firm caresses, the other reached blindly for the drawer in the bedside table and the bottle of lubricant that was within it.

He pumped some into the palm of his hand, feeling Crowley’s questioning eyes on him. With two quick movements, Aziraphale slicked both of their cocks with lube and delighted in the filthy moan that Crowley couldn’t hold in.

Adjusting his position, Aziraphale brought them together so that their erections were pressed against each other, standing proud. Crowley made a small noise of understanding just before Aziraphale wrapped his lube coated hand around both their shafts.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart, tell me what you need,” Aziraphale urged as he began to stroke them, squeezing at the bases and sliding upwards.

“This- this is good,” Crowley said, biting his bottom lip. “Maybe a little more pressure.”

Aziraphale obliged and watched with delight as Crowley’s hands flew to his mouth, smothering the sounds that tried to escape from him. He allowed himself to be guided by Crowley’s reactions as much as he could in the dark room, seeing which movements got the best reactions and making sure to build his pleasure as steadily as possible. Having Crowley come apart beneath him was oh so much better than he had ever dreamed. The only thing keeping Aziraphale from making a mess of them both far too quickly was his need to pleasure Crowley.

Soon enough, he felt Crowley’s cock twitch within his grasp and heard Crowley’s breaths grow shallow. Aziraphale bit his lip and tried to keep everything consistent.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley gasped, “I’m gonna- Christ, Aziraphale. I’m gonna come.”

“I’ve got you, it’s OK,” Aziraphale said, watching ecstasy bloom on Crowley’s perfect face. “Let go for me, let me see it.”

Crowley groaned, screwed his eyes shut, and lifted his hips into Aziraphale’s hand. He was so beautiful and open, his whole body tensing deliciously as his climax began to crest. Aziraphale didn’t want to miss a second of it, but as soon as the first drops began to spill from Crowley’s cock, Aziraphale found his own pleasure taking over and his eyes closed.

Their combined spend was still dribbling onto his fingers when Crowley reached up to draw Aziraphale down into a soft, tender kiss. The wet mess of them caught between their bodies, of such little consequence compared to the importance of kissing and murmuring affections. Aziraphale was deeply, completely suffused with happiness.

He cleaned Crowley up first, using tissues from the box beside the bed and taking care not to spread any of the mess from his own stomach or hand. Once they were clean and comfortable, Crowley kissed him again, whispering his thanks and satisfaction and adoration. It was more perfect than Aziraphale could have ever imagined. He was so in love with this man.

* * *

That night, he slept with Crowley’s arms around him and Crowley’s mouth at the nape of his neck. Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever feeling so safe and loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just nice and soft this time. Nothing mean for my boys!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, loves. This chapter has discussion of historical domestic violence and abuse. Be careful.
> 
> There's also smut right at the start of this chapter so, be warned if that's not your bag!

Waking slowly, Aziraphale became aware of the welcome yet unfamiliar weight of another’s arms around his middle before anything else. The moment before he opened his eyes, a soft kiss was pressed to the back of his neck by smiling lips. This was how he wanted to wake up every morning.

He shifted in the bed, preparing to roll over and face Crowley, only to be held in place with a whispered plea not to move. Relaxing back into the mattress, Aziraphale’s hand sought out one of Crowley’s, lacing their fingers together and squeezing it reassuringly. He had no desire to end this moment, not for as long as Crowley wanted to prolong it.

The kiss was repeated, becoming a trail leading from the back of Aziraphale’s neck along his shoulder until Crowley was leaning up on one elbow and leaning over him. Aziraphale twisted his head a little to be able to see Crowley.

“Morning,” Crowley said, a gentle smile on his face.

“Morning,” Aziraphale repeated, too blissfully happy to think of anything more clever to say.

He snuggled back against Crowley, urging him to sink into the bed once more, but with their bodies pressed flush together, Aziraphale became intimately aware of Crowley’s renewed arousal.

“Oh,” he breathed, glancing back at Crowley to see his slightly bashful expression. “That certainly suggests a very good morning, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you want it to,” Crowley whispered between kisses up Aziraphale’s neck. “It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to.”

In answer, Aziraphale brought their joined hands down to where his own erection was making itself known, slowly enough that Crowley could pull his hand away before making contact. Instead, those clever, talented fingers curled around Aziraphale’s shaft and squeezed him just enough to draw a gasp from his lips.

“I see,” Crowley said, sounding wicked, “I think this is something I can work with.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reassure Crowley that he had no expectations just as he fluttered his fingers around Aziraphale’s cock and all that left his lips was a moaning gasp of pleasure. Automatically, his hips lifted into Crowley’s hand and he surrendered himself entirely to the sensations.

“That’s right, honey, let me take care of you,” Crowley said, echoing Aziraphale’s words from the night before. He was powerless to resist, just a melted puddle of a person in Crowley’s arms.

The arm that Crowley was lying on worked its way over Aziraphale’s shoulder and across his chest so that Aziraphale was resting his head on Crowley’s bicep. He held them together like that, working Aziraphale’s cock with an attention to his pleasure that Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever having experienced before. All the while, Crowley’s hips rocked, grinding his cock into the meat of Aziraphale’s arse.

Far from feeling used for gratification, Aziraphale felt connected through their shared pleasure. Crowley kissed his neck and behind his ear, murmuring the kind of endearments that Aziraphale had always longed to hear. He called Aziraphale beautiful, desirable, sexy beyond belief, and irresistible until Aziraphale could almost believe these things of himself. He could get used to being spoken to like this, he thought, to being touched like he was worth touching.

His orgasm hit him out of nowhere. One moment he was held between Crowley’s cock and his hand, rocking between them both in a delicious swell of pleasure, and the next he was curled tight on his side, coming on Crowley’s hand where it was trapped against him.

“Yes, that’s it, gorgeous,” Crowley said in a low voice, right by his ear, “Look at you, you perfect bloody thing.” His voice was rough with want, the movements of his hips increased in speed and strength until his breath caught and he grunted out his own release, hot and wet against Aziraphale’s arse. “Sorry,” he said after a moment.

“My dear, whatever for?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous and still floating through the cloud of his ecstasy.

“I- uh, I’m not sure!” Crowley laughed, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It was so intimate and easy, Aziraphale could let himself imagine waking up like this for many more mornings, as many as he might be blessed with. This thing with Crowley, it could be real, he was sure of it. He just had to keep himself from making an accidental mess of everything.

Once the aftershocks of pleasure had left them both feeling warm and boneless, Aziraphale reached for the tissues once more and helped Crowley get them both cleaned up. There was nothing to be done about the two damp spots on the mattress except to wriggle away from them, over to the side of the bed that would have been Crowley’s, had he not slept curled around Aziraphale like a koala.

For the first time, Aziraphale allowed himself to initiate a kiss rather than waiting for Crowley. Lying face to face, loosely wrapped in each others arms, still enjoying the afterglow of sex, Aziraphale brought his mouth to Crowley’s in a tentative but affectionate display. Crowley made a little noise of delight and submitted himself to Aziraphale’s kiss, receiving rather than seeking. To know that Crowley was receptive to intimacy in so many forms was a privilege that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d earned.

“Next time, you’re fucking me, OK?” Crowley said, laughing as Aziraphale pulled away.

The thought of a next time, proposed by Crowley and not just in Aziraphale’s dreams, made Aziraphale grin like an idiot.

“Whatever you like,” he said at last.

They resettled their limbs around each other, their legs entwined and arms reaching around waists to stroke idly at whatever skin was within reach. A happy and contented silence stretched out.

“I thought of you, you know,” Crowley said eventually, “all the time, really. I should have reached out.”

Aziraphale made a dismissive noise in his throat.

“It doesn’t matter, you’re here now.”

“Can I stay?” Crowley asked, looking down and avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes.

“For as long as you like, yes,” Aziraphale answered, and he meant it.

Another silence settled over them and Aziraphale basked in the comfort of it. He had almost been lulled back to sleep when Crowley spoke again.

“Tell me about your ex?” he asked, his hand stroking up and down Aziraphale’s back in comforting monotony.

Exhaling in a long huff, Aziraphale considered how much to divulge about his past relationship. It wasn’t that he’d wanted to hide any of the details, more that he feared setting off that “Poor Aziraphale” expression that he’d seen on so many faces in the years since Sandy had left. He couldn’t bear that kind of pity right now, not from Crowley.

“I was in a strange place in my life when I met Sandy. My parents had died, leaving Tracy and I a significant amount of money each. I bought this place, and the bookshop, and then I just sort of, stopped.” He looked at Crowley then, needing to see his expression. He looked attentive and understanding, solemn but gentle. “I had the things that I’d been working towards, things that I thought it would take me years to achieve, and I began to feel detached, aimless. When Sandy showed up, it was something new and exciting, I felt interesting again. He could make me feel like I was worthy of anything... and then he’d switch and take that away for no obvious reason.”

Aziraphale paused and swallowed thickly. It felt too raw to expose his mistakes to Crowley like this, and he couldn’t help but draw comparisons between how Sandy had made him feel and the excitement of being in Crowley’s orbit.

“It’s OK,” Crowley said gently, kissing Aziraphale’s cheek, “you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale decided to press on.

“It became a game he would play with me; I can see that now, looking back. He would run so hot and cold that I could never know what I was going home to and it was exhausting. He’d threaten to leave me and then, in the next breath, tell me that I was the only person he could see himself marrying. All my energy went into trying to keep the peace. I think I forgot that I didn’t have to live like that. The good times felt so wonderful at the time but now I can see that I was fooling myself.” Aziraphale stopped to breathe, needing to centre himself before moving on. Crowley kept quiet, just stroking Aziraphale’s back and waiting. 

“One day, in the middle of some pointless argument, he hit me. Right across the face. Then he punched me in the stomach for making him so angry that he’d had to hit me. I swear, I was just about to apologise to him when he grabbed his coat and said that he was leaving me. He walked out and I just sort of went all calm and cold. I called Tracy and she called Leslie and then everyone was here. I said I wanted Sandy gone and that was it. By the time he came back to ‘accept my apology’ all of his stuff was packed up and stacked in the hallway. Arthur had even changed the locks for me so Sandy couldn’t get into the flat. He spent the next six months harassing me until I was forced to apply for a non-molestation order. Last I heard, he’d moved up north somewhere and I don’t care to know any more than that.”

For several long moments, Crowley didn’t say anything. Aziraphale had enough time to imagine all the possible permutations of “sorry, too much baggage” that he was about to hear before Crowley finally reacted.

Aziraphale found himself hugged tightly, Crowley’s face buried against his neck. He didn’t feel rejected or pitied, this was acceptance. They had shown each other their most vulnerable and raw histories and found understanding together.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Aziraphale, you are incredible for coming through that and still being this kind, giving man,” Crowley said at last, lips moving against the skin of Aziraphale’s throat.

With a scoff, Aziraphale tried to brush off the praise.

“It was years ago now, it’s all done and dusted.”

Crowley made a noise of disbelief that turned into a kiss, and that turned into a series of kisses along Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“ _ I _ think you’re incredible and I have it on good authority from a number of fan letters that I’m practically a god,” Crowley joked.

Slowly, they disentangled their limbs, reluctantly moving towards acknowledging the relentless march of time that would take Aziraphale to the bookshop for the day. Aziraphale’s feet touched the floor at the exact moment that a loud, prolonged blast of a car horn sounded from outside. He jumped, yanking his feet back up as if he was responsible for the sound, before giggling with Crowley about the dramatics of his reaction.

He was retrieving his underwear from the night before so he could make a quick dash to the bathroom when another car horn sounded, this time accompanied by some muted shouts. Glancing at Crowley only to see a comically confused expression, Aziraphale gave into curiosity and went to the window and drew aside the curtain.

Both sides of the street below were filled with photographers, all holding expensive cameras with long lenses. As they jostled for position, some would step into the road, into the path of irritated taxi drivers.

Aziraphale couldn’t make sense of it until he heard Crowley’s approach. He dropped the curtain at once and turned to face Crowley.

“Don’t look!” he cried.

“Nasty accident?” Crowley asked as his fingers reached for the curtain.

Aziraphale made to snatch it away from him but Crowley was too fast. He pulled it out of Aziraphale’s reach and for half a second it seemed like perhaps Aziraphale had been worried for nothing. Then one of the photographers yelled in recognition and suddenly fifty lenses were focused on Aziraphale and Crowley, practically naked, framed in Aziraphale’s bedroom window.

Crowley froze and Aziraphale managed to wrestle the curtain from his hand, closing it once more. He tried to lead Crowley away from the window to sit on the bed but Crowley dug his heels in.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“It’s not so bad, just a bit unflattering, I imagine,” Aziraphale tried to offer some comfort.

At once, Crowley came to life and paced away from Aziraphale, throwing his hands into the air in frustration or anger or exasperation, Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.

“Fuck!” Crowley yelled at the ceiling, “Yes, it’s bad, Aziraphale. It’s really fucking bad. God, I’m so stupid for thinking I could escape this. And now I’ve dragged you into my mess!” He picked up his phone from the bedside table and scrolled through his contacts. Aziraphale could only watch in mute fear that Crowley was about to disappear again.

“Hi, I need a car. Yes, that’s right, same address. Thank you.” Crowley finished his call and dropped the phone onto the bed only to begin his anxious laps of the room once more, visibly distressed.

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s hands as he paced past, forcing him to stand and face Aziraphale.

“Breathe, please. Tell me what I’m missing here? I don’t understand.”

Crowley growled and pulled his hands free only to clasp Aziraphale’s shoulders and hold him still.

“They have photos of us, looking like this, clearly in your bedroom. I don’t know about me, but you look like you’ve been having sex all night and I’d bet that I do too. God, they’re going to eat this up.”

Aziraphale faltered, searching Crowley’s face for any of the softness of just a few minutes ago.

“Is it because it’s me?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. “You don’t want people to see you with me?”

Relief flooded Crowley’s features and Aziraphale’s heart cracked.

“Yes! Exactly!” Crowley exclaimed, throwing his head back far enough that he couldn't help but bend his knees. Aziraphale’s face fell and he stepped back. “No! Wait, not like that! Fuck!”

Crowley’s hands tightened on Aziraphale’s arms so he couldn’t escape.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, his face serious and worried. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not ashamed of you, Aziraphale, not at all.” Crowley kissed him then, just once on the mouth, in a way that felt too much like goodbye. “But the press are vicious and voracious, I can’t drag you into this life.”

“Crowley, you aren’t dragging me into anything!”

“This isn’t something you get to opt out of!” Crowley cried. “You don’t get to walk down to those fucking vultures down there and say ‘Ever so sorry, but I don’t actually want to be in the public eye so if you could just delete those photos and pretend I don’t exist whilst following my boyfriend around, I’d appreciate it’!”

Crowley’s mocking imitation of his voice grated on Aziraphale right up until he said the word “boyfriend” and then he found he couldn’t be irritated by anything Crowley did. He really wasn’t ashamed of Aziraphale.

“You’re not listening, Crowley.” Aziraphale let his hands reach for Crowley’s waist as he pleaded. “You can’t drag me into something that I choose for myself. Let me make this decision.”

Crowley shook his head sadly, moving away despite Aziraphale’s efforts to keep him near.

“They would destroy you,” said Crowley, “what they do is invasive and unethical and I’ve seen too many people hurt by it, this is the only way to keep you safe.”

Crowley lifted his bag onto the bed and rummaged through it, yanking out clean clothes before stuffing in the outfit he’d worn the day before.

“Crowley, wait, please!” Aziraphale begged, hovering beside Crowley but not daring to touch him. “We can talk about this!”

Crowley just shook his head and zipped up his bag before dressing quickly. He checked his phone once before shoving it into his pocket.

“Please,” Aziraphale tried again, “don’t leave, not like this.”

The heartbreak on Crowley’s face was salt in the wound of Aziraphale’s own heart. This was hurting both of them and he couldn’t understand why Crowley wouldn’t at least  _ talk _ about it.

Crowley left the room, carrying his bag into the lounge. Aziraphale followed, pausing only to pull on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He arrived in time to see Crowley laying his guitar back in its case with reverent hands and snapping the lid closed. His hair was standing out at all angles and Aziraphale couldn’t let him outside looking like that.

He moved to stand beside Crowley and reached up slowly to comb his fingers through the mess of curls and tangles until it was laying smooth and tame in gentle waves. Before he could pull his hand away, Crowley caught his wrist and pressed a kiss into his palm.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

“Then why don’t you stay and see if we can’t sort this out together?”

The buzzer sounded for the door and Crowley pulled away, sliding sunglasses over his eyes.

"I couldn't live with myself if I let them get to someone that I lo-" Crowley stopped, breathing deeply, "someone like you."

Aziraphale’s heart seemed to stop in his chest, replaced by a hollow, aching pain behind his ribs. He was robbed of breath and sense by the merest hint of  _ that _ word on Crowley’s lips. Which is why he could only watch as Crowley let himself out of the flat with his bag and his guitar.

Seconds later, a barrage of sound exploded from outside, photographers and journalists yelling at Crowley as he emerged from the building. Aziraphale could almost picture it as he sank to the floor in his living room, his back pressed against the side of the sofa.

A noise in the hallway drew his attention, some daft flash of hope sparking at the idea that Crowley hadn’t really left. It was doused immediately as Shadwell emerged from his room, scratching at himself and yawning.

“Y’see the circus outside?” he asked, gesturing vaguely with the hand not currently employed in his underpants. Aziraphale nodded, unable to find his voice. “Think they got a few piccies of me doin’ me stretches.”

Aziraphale looked up at him with the most withering stare he could muster.

“D’ye think it were anythin’ t’do wi’ Crowley bein’ here?” The hand in Shadwell’s pants migrates up to rub at the back of his neck. On anyone else it might have looked self-conscious. “I mighta mentioned tha’ he were stayin’ here to a couple o’blokes down th’ pub.”

Aziraphale began to laugh. An ugly, choking, hacking laugh that carried no humour or joy. Tears welled up along his lower lashes and spilt onto his cheeks even as he laughed.

Perhaps sensing the danger, Shadwell made a hasty retreat to his room and left Aziraphale to his breakdown.

The haze of hysteria melted away, leaving the knife-like shards of Aziraphale’s heart exposed and bleeding. A deep, black pit opened in his soul, consuming all that was good and light. Aziraphale cried in heaving sobs until he could scarcely draw breath against the force of his grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.
> 
> At least a little bit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 chapters, lol, I'm such a joker. I've upped it to 14 but I'm still not sure that I know what I'm talking about.
> 
> There's further discussion of sexual assault in this chapter although nothing graphic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. It encompasses my favourite scene in the movie which I never stood a chance of replicating.

Eventually, Aziraphale managed to pick himself up off the floor. In the absence of one single better idea, he showered, dressed, and left to open the bookshop. There might be comfort in the familiarity of a routine, Aziraphale reasoned as he unlocked the door and switched off the alarm.

He moved through the shop as though lead weights had been attached to his arms and legs. He supposed it was to be expected, that a heartbreak as sudden and fresh as his would drain all the colour and joy from the world.  _ Well, the only way out is through _ , Aziraphale thought to himself, knowing he would just have to get through this just as he had with every other dark part of his life.

The routine wasn’t a comfort, but it was easy. Aziraphale had barely changed anything about his mornings in the near fifteen years he’d owned the shop. He could probably open it up in his sleep by this point. It was going well enough until the first customer wandered in and set off the little bell above the door.

The tinkling chime suddenly felt mocking and insincere. Aziraphale couldn’t say  _ what _ , exactly, made it sound like that, but he knew it had to go. When Newt arrived an hour later, Aziraphale was on the stepladder to one side of the door, wrestling with a screwdriver. He dropped the bell into Newt’s hands.

“Get rid of that for me, will you?”

His mood didn’t improve following the removal of the bell. It didn’t improve when Newt made the largest sale of his career and didn’t crash the till when taking payment for it. Even noticing that Newt had, very wisely, decided not to hold Aziraphale to his promise of gossip did nothing to lift the dark cloud that had settled in his chest.

In the half-hour lunch break that Newt took, Aziraphale decided to start an ambitious reorganisation of the entire shop. Unsurprisingly, it was not completed when Newt returned and took the rest of the day to sort out. Aziraphale still wasn’t happy with it.

As he was letting himself into the flat that evening, Aziraphale’s phone buzzed in his pocket. In his desperation to get to it, he almost dropped his keys, the tub of ice cream he was holding, and the phone itself. Just about juggling himself into stability, Aziraphale unlocked his phone and opened his messages.

_ [Tracy 18:12] _ _   
_ _ U alright? Newt said u been weird all day _

His heart sank. Of course there was nothing from Crowley, he’d made things perfectly clear that morning, hadn’t he? There wasn’t room for someone like Aziraphale in his life. It had all just been a distraction from a difficult situation- stress relief, nothing more. Aziraphale was the one who’d got his feelings all tangled up. Obviously Crowley wasn’t ever going to settle for a boring shopkeeper.

It still hurt to have his foolish dreams die.

_ [18:15] _ _   
_ _ Yeah, just a strange couple of days. _ _   
_ _ I’ll tell you when I see you next. _

And he would have to, he realised. The fallout from this was going to last weeks, if not longer. All of his close friends would need to know something of what he was going through. That was the whole point of having friends, wasn’t it? To keep you going when things are hard? At least he had them to help hold him together.

With just his tub of ice cream and a spoon for company, Aziraphale settled into his armchair and began scrolling through his netflix queue. He was trying to decide between some kind of spy drama set during the Blitz and an Elizabethan tale of star crossed lovers when the doorbell buzzed.

“Shadwell, I swear if you’ve lost your keys again...” Aziraphale muttered under his breath as he pushed himself up from the chair and into the hallway. His threat died in his mouth at the sight of Tracy waving at him through the intercom camera.

“Let me up, I’ve got wine!” she called.

Hitting the button for the front entrance, Aziraphale watched Tracy disappear from view before moving to open the door to the flat. She bounced through moments later, bearing a bottle of white zinfandel in her hand and an enthusiastic hug for her brother.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, heading into the kitchen for glasses and a second spoon.

“I was in the area? I needed someone to share this wine with? I thought you might be missing my gorgeous face and sparkling personality?” Tracy threw out excuses with a bright smile, infecting Aziraphale with a touch of her positivity. “Do I have to have a reason to want to spend time with my favourite brother?”

“Only brother,” Aziraphale corrected automatically, taking the wine and cracking it open.

“Still my favourite, though,” Tracy insisted, hugging Aziraphale from behind. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Aziraphale stiffened as some of the ease Tracy had carried in began to evaporate. He made a noise of assent and disentangled himself from her embrace, handing over a glass of wine and a spoon before ushering her through to the living room.

“Crowley was here,” he said after sitting on the sofa beside Tracy and trying not to think too much about how Crowley had looked curled up right where his sister now sat, fiddling with her spoon.

“I know that,” said Tracy, reaching for the ice cream and digging out a spoonful. “Everyone knows that.”

Panic gripped Aziraphale’s chest for two seconds as he wondered just how many people Shadwell had spread the news to. But then he remembered. He’d woken up to find half the country’s tabloid press on his doorstep. That sort of thing tended to have repercussions.

“Right, right, the photos, of course.” He sank into himself at the memory.

“You looked very cosy, very  _ close _ ,” Tracy said with a questioning lift of her eyebrow.

“We were, at least I thought we were,” Aziraphale sighed and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t understand what went wrong, Tracy, he just wouldn’t listen to me.”

Tracy handed the ice cream to Aziraphale and watched as he carved a little out and sucked it from his spoon. He was miserable, perhaps even more than he had been that morning. The flat felt empty and lifeless, even with Tracy as a colourful centrepiece.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? See if we can’t work out where things went sideways?” She patted his shoulder as she spoke and the quiet act of sympathy had him near tears.

Aziraphale nodded and ate another spoonful of ice cream before beginning to fill her in on all the details of his 24 hours with Crowley.

By the time both the wine and ice cream had been consumed, Tracy had heard the full story. Aziraphale had cried, then Tracy had cried, and, finally, they had cried together. He told her as much as he could bear. He told her about how Crowley had appeared at his door, about the apology Crowley had insisted on giving, about the wonderful afternoon spent on the roof, even about the silly apple swan that he’d made for Crowley’s breakfast and about realising that he’d fallen in love. Without any of the more intimate detail, he told her about how Crowley had invited him into his bed and how they’d slept in each other’s arms. Then, fighting tears, he told her about how they had found the press camped out on the street that morning, although it seemed a million years ago already. Somehow he managed to repeat the words that Crowley had said just before leaving, the hint of a confession bitten back, without his heart actually stopping.

“Oh, sausage,” Tracy said sympathetically, opening her arms, “It sounds like you did everything right and it still didn’t go your way. That’s not your fault, Azzy.”

He sniffed loudly against her shoulder, letting her envelop him in another much-needed hug.

“But what do I do now? How can I get him back?” Even as he asked, Aziraphale knew the answer.

“I’m not sure there is anything you can do, he’s got to come ‘round on his own,” she said thoughtfully, Aziraphale could hear her sucking on her teeth in the way she always did when puzzling something over. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to send him a message, though. Let him know the door is still open, so to speak?”

Aziraphale pulled himself from her embrace and looked at her, unsure and a little lost.

“But-”

“But what?” Tracy cut him off. “Worst case, he tells you not to contact him again and you’ve got closure at the very least. It won’t hurt any more than it currently does and you’ll  _ know _ . Best case, well, that’s obvious.”

He could only stare, open-mouthed, as his ditzy, perpetually glitter-coated sister destroyed the objections he hadn’t even fully formed yet.

“Help me?” he asked, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Together, they drafted, scrapped, re-drafted and tweaked until they had a message that they were both happy with. Aziraphale read it through once more, feeling the fluttering of nerves but nothing more ominous. That was probably a good sign, he decided. Before he could reconsider, he hit send and immediately threw his phone onto the armchair, putting it out of reach in an attempt to curb any obsessive checking for a reply.

“Well done!” Tracy gave a small round of applause. “You’re very brave.”

“Brave? What, why?” Aziraphale’s mind latched onto the worst possible interpretation of her words. “Tracy, was that a mistake? Did I just fuck up monumentally?”

She was giggling and shaking her head, about to clarify her meaning when the phone buzzed twice against the cushions. Aziraphale caught Tracy’s eye, sure that he looked at least as shocked as she did. A single beat of surprised silence passed and then the pair were diving towards Aziraphale’s phone, clawing at each other in the way that only siblings can. Aziraphale won out in the end, holding the phone in the air to unlock it and read the message.

_ [20:31] _ _   
_ _ Crowley, yesterday meant a great deal to me _ _   
_ _ and I can’t regret all that happened between _ _   
_ _ us. I want you to know that my door is always _ _   
_ _ open for you, should you want it. If it’s not too _ _   
_ _ cheesy to say, I don’t want this to be goodbye. _

_ [Crowley 20:35] _ _   
_ _ I’m sorry. _ _   
_ _ You deserve better than I can be. _

“What do I say to that, Tracy?” Aziraphale groaned, slumping back onto the sofa, his phone cradled between his hands. Tracy’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Fucked if I know, Azzy, sorry. We’ve exceeded the limit of my romantic abilities.”

Aziraphale laughed bitterly, knowing that was equally true for both of them. Neither of the Fell siblings had been particularly lucky in love and that streak looked set to continue.

“Look, you don’t have to answer right away. Have a little think about it, eh?” Tracy said, sounding as sensible as she ever had.

Aziraphale did think about it. He thought about it all evening, through another bottle of wine and a film about Emperor Nero that he shared with Tracy. He lay awake thinking about it for most of the night, and when his alarm finally woke him up in the morning, it was the first thing on his mind.

He began to type a response almost as soon as the sleep had cleared from his eyes.

_ I still want… _

He deleted and started again.

_ You must know that I… _

_ Still wrong _ , Aziraphale dropped his phone onto his chest and dragged his hands down his face. He couldn’t find the right words, the ones he needed to say exactly what he felt without leaving himself too vulnerable, something he could recover from.

_ [07:04] _ _   
_ _ I’d really like to have a part in that decision _

He sent the message and stared at the screen for longer than he’d like to admit. It was ridiculous to expect a reply at this time, he told himself; it was early and Crowley literally kept rock star hours. Finally, Aziraphale got up from the sofa and went to have a shower.

He checked his phone so much that Newt asked if he was expecting a call. All day long, he’d feel the phantom vibration against his thigh only to whip his phone from his pocket and find the screen empty of notifications. Once, he got a text from Dominos Pizza offering a special deal. He was so irritated by the false hope that he finally unsubscribed from the texts.

To make matters worse, the press had managed to track him to the shop. A couple of hopeful photographers began lurking outside and the phone rang so much that Aziraphale had ripped the cord from the wall in a fit of frustration. Not before he’d been offered increasingly insulting amounts of money for exclusive interviews about his relationship with Crowley. The very thought made him want to cry.

By the time he had locked up the shop, his message was still unanswered and unread. There was no indication that Crowley had even thought of him beyond sending one message of dismissal. Perhaps the problem had been Aziraphale all along, he thought- Crowley was probably just too kind to tell him the painful truth. That must be it.

That night, Aziraphale managed to sleep in his own bed, the sheets unchanged from the few hours that he’d had someone divine to share them with. He slept with one hand stretched towards where Crowley had lain, too afraid of his own reaction should he smell Crowley’s hair on the pillow or his sweat on the duvet.

It was August and Aziraphale was alone.

Tracy must have spoken to their friends, or they’d read enough in the press, because everyone seemed to know what had happened between him and Crowley. He would have told them himself eventually, of course, but this way was easier.

When he mentioned having to set up a filter for his business email address, everyone understood what he meant. When he suddenly flicked off the radio in Leslie’s car, they understood why. When he declined the offer of any more blind dates, no one pushed the matter. His friends were careful with the edges of his shattered heart.

Aziraphale got through the first few weeks entirely on autopilot. He opened the shop, fulfilled his online orders, spoke to technical support for his till system, and closed the shop. The photographers got bored after an uneventful week or so, even the phone calls slowed to a trickle until it was only the most desperate of “talent managers” promising Aziraphale that he could be on the next “I’m A Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here” if he signed with them and played his cards right. Of course, Aziraphale had no interest in anything they could offer.

In October, the Lucas Morgenstern case went to trial. Aziraphale had known it was coming when opportunistic sharks masquerading as journalists began figuratively circling the shop again. He dealt with phone calls, emails, texts, even a couple of personal visits, all with the goal of getting Aziraphale to spill potentially juicy gossip on the case and the world famous musician at the centre.

Nothing could convince Aziraphale to give up a single detail of his time with Crowley; he was resolute in the face of the harassment. He had faced worse, after all. And if some part of him hoped that Crowley saw that Aziraphale was coping, holding the line, then perhaps he might realise that he didn’t need to stay away... well, that was no-one’s business.

The trial lasted two weeks and Aziraphale really tried to avoid reading about it. His previous taste for celebrity gossip had soured after having been on the other side of it for a brief moment. All he could think about, whenever someone mentioned the trial in front of him, was how Crowley must be feeling.

Were his friends with him? Or was he alone in that courtroom, looking his rapist in the eye? Was he taking good enough care of himself? Playing enough music to keep his nerves in check? Was there someone else sharing his bed now, helping to carry those burdens as only a lover can?

It was safer not to think of it. Aziraphale couldn’t cope with knowing the answer.

Lucas Morgenstern was found guilty of eight counts of rape and eleven counts of causing a person to engage in sexual activity without consent. He was sentenced to no less than twenty years imprisonment. Photographs of Crowley embracing the other two victims, crying tears of relief, were on the front page of every newspaper and at the top of every news site.

Against his better judgement, Aziraphale found a video of the press conference Crowley gave after the sentencing. It felt like having his heart torn out all over again, to see the way Crowley held himself together in front of journalists who would have been just as happy to tear him down had the result gone the other way. He was so composed, even managing a smile without looking over-confident. Yet, Aziraphale could see the way his eyes darted behind the sunglasses, the movement of his throat as he swallowed convulsively, and the habitual flex of his hands, empty of a guitar to occupy them.

He looked well, nervous and jumpy, but well. Aziraphale tried to be grateful for that and closed out of the video before he gave over to full sobs. Crowley had people around him, his bandmates, his friends, he wouldn’t be thinking of Aziraphale at a time like that.

It was November and Aziraphale’s message was still unread.

He spent Christmas with Tracy at the flat, Shadwell having gone off to whatever zoological exhibit passed for his family home. They cooked a half-hearted Christmas dinner together, drank the brandy meant for the brandy cream, and heckled the Queen’s speech, just as their father had when he was alive.

An inadvisable amount of alcohol into the evening, Tracy and Aziraphale were equally matched in their melancholies. Certain that they were too old to find true love, they spent too many hours recounting their teenage crushes and looking them up on social media. Thankfully, there wasn’t a single fish that would have made an enviable prize. Aziraphale suggested, to Tracy’s enthusiastic agreement, that they were both just awful at picking good partners. No mention was made of  _ the musician. _

Their Boxing Day hangovers were collectively nursed at Leslie and Maud’s, where they found sympathetic company and enough leftovers to make some truly magnificent sandwiches. Maud recounted her thrilling competition against Leslie’s grandmother during which she retained her title of wheelchair race champion. Arthur arrived in the late afternoon with a bottle of port and the friends got to the business of creating brand new hangovers to regret the next morning.

Aziraphale had no one to kiss on New Year’s Eve, although both Shadwell and Arthur offered over the course of the small party Aziraphale had thrown. The thought of kissing anyone, even as a joke with a friend, was still too raw for him. Ridiculous, he knew, but his heart needed the space to heal.

It was January and Aziraphale knew that he would never hear from Crowley again.

The winter was long and bitterly cold, filled with more snow that London usually saw. Aziraphale spent as much time as possible in the better insulated bookshop. In previous winters, he’d enjoyed being cosy in his own little kingdom, working on his research between customers, chatting with Newt, drinking decadent and indulgent hot chocolates from the cafe on the corner, but now it all felt constrictive and choking.

His life felt like a jumper that had shrunk in the wash. It used to fit comfortably and feel perfectly worn-in, but now it clung at him and squeezed at the edges. Even though he no longer checked that particular message thread, his hope of a response utterly shrivelled away, Aziraphale still felt the flutter of his pathetic heart whenever he heard Crowley’s voice on the radio or television.

In late February, Shadwell sat him down at the little kitchen table, a serious expression on his face and two rollies tucked behind his ear, a sure sign of stress.

“Fella, c’mon and talk t’me, yeah?” As an opening it left a lot to be desired.

“What would you like to talk about?” Aziraphale asked, being as obtuse as possible.

“We’ve lived together for, what, two years?” Shadwell asked, changing tack.

“Four years,” Aziraphale corrected automatically.

“Aye, aye, four years,” Shadwell paused and looked thoughtful, Aziraphale could see him counting on his fingers. “Reckon we’ve got t’know each other some over tha’ time. I can tell there’s somethin’ been botherin’ ye these past months.”

Aziraphale nodded, still no clearer about what Shadwell wanted to know.

“Ye can talk t’me abou’ it, if ye want.”

Aziraphale was stunned into silence, his mouth slightly agape in surprise. Shadwell just sat and waited, looking as kindly as Aziraphale had ever seen him.

“Well,” he said at last, “as it happens, I have been preoccupied, you could say.” Shadwell nodded encouragingly. “There was a man, a man I was falling in love with.”

“Aye, could tell there were a romantical nature to yer mopin’,” Shadwell said wisely. “The musician we dinnae name?”

Aziraphale shot him a shrewd look, but he was feeling better for venting some of his excess emotion so he gave a nod and continued.

“It seems as though he didn’t feel the same way and I’ve been left behind, quite bereft and alone.” Aziraphale tried to discreetly dab at his eyes as they began to swim. “It’s as though I’m Eve, having taken a bite of the apple. I know what it’s like to kiss him and hold him, what it was to wake up beside him. I can’t put that knowledge back, I can’t unbite the apple. Do you see?”

Shadwell chewed on his lip for a moment and pulled one of the cigarettes from behind his ear just to fiddle with it.

“Aye,” he said at last before grinning, “I knew a lass named Eve in school, I’d’ve ‘ad a bite o’her apple, if yer ken wha’ I mean!”

The rare magic of the moment was shattered beyond repair, thankfully, and Aziraphale excused himself from the conversation while Shadwell laughed at his own joke.

When spring arrived, Aziraphale began to force himself back up to the rooftop garden in order to tend to the plants that had survived the snow. He was planting some new perennials in a raised bed, sweat trickling down his spine from heat and exertion, when the radio station he’d been listening to began running through the entertainment news. With his hands buried in soil, he was forced to endure it as best he could.

The male leads of  _ that _ HBO blockbuster had simultaneously made thousands of fans very happy and more than a little heartbroken as they confirmed their romantic relationship. Aziraphale was pleased for them, in an abstract sort of way. At least  _ someone  _ was having luck in love. Some popstar was suspected of being pregnant which, Aziraphale thought bitterly, shouldn’t be anyone’s business but hers. Oh, how his feelings had changed. Lastly, reports that Anthony Crowley of  _ The Demons _ had been spotted at a recording studio without the rest of the band were fuelling rumours of a split.

Aziraphale scoffed at that. After everything that had happened last year, there was no way that Crowley would leave the band. Aziraphale knew that in his bones. Just like the press to leap to conclusions with minimal evidence.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced in Aziraphale’s mind. Black and white print beneath an unflattering colour photograph.  _ The suspected lover of Anthony Crowley is Aziraphale Fell, 44, Bookseller. _

Suspected lover. Even that had been too much to hope for. Aziraphale reached one filthy hand towards the radio and shut it off.

Although Leslie offered to cook for Tracy’s birthday, Aziraphale wasn’t quite ready for that stark comparison to the event last year. After a quiet word with his sister, Aziraphale managed to change the event from a dinner party at Maud and Leslie’s to a tapas and movie night at his flat. Shadwell agreed to make himself scarce for most of the evening and Maud coordinated the process of getting her chair up the single flight of stairs like it was a military operation. Arthur even managed to arrive on time and only complained about the looming end of his career twice.

It was an enjoyable night in the best kind of company. Aziraphale was filled with warmth, good food, and better wine. Tracy leaned against him on the sofa as they watched the film and picked fault in everything the protagonist did. Everything was soft around the edges in a most pleasing way. Aziraphale wasn’t even slightly upset when Shadwell turned up half an hour earlier than expected and perched himself on the arm of the sofa, quietly joining the group.

At the sappy, romantic conclusion, Tracy voiced her comedic disgust loudly enough that it took a few seconds for anyone to recognise the song playing over the end credits. Almost as one, five heads turned to stare at Aziraphale. Confused, he looked between them and almost physically felt the moment when he realised the problem. 

_ The Demons _ were playing and everyone was waiting for him to fall apart.

He smiled as convincingly as he could, relying on the collective wine consumption to fuzz the sharper corners of his reaction. It took conscious effort, but he relaxed his shoulders and leaned back into the cushions.

“It’s fine,” he said, as much to convince himself as anyone else, “I’ve decided it’s high time I stopped being a dramatic old queen about it all and moved on. I’m closing that chapter for once and for all.”

His friends did have truly appalling fake smiles of encouragement, Aziraphale reflected, but they were trying. Except for Shadwell, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Aye, so ye won’ be wantin’ what I go’ fer ye in me pocket?” He patted the breast pocket of his waxed jacket meaningfully. “An’ after I wen’ t’so much trouble.”

“What do you have?” Tracy cried, scrabbling to the edge of her seat.

“He doesn’t have anything, Trace, he’s just winding me up.” Aziraphale patted her on the back in an absent-minded manner, distracting himself from his own horrible curiosity.

Against all odds, Shadwell’s grin grew wider and more disturbing. He pulled a white envelope from his pocket and held it between two grubby fingers.

“Oh aye, I dinnae have a thing,” Shadwell chuckled, “I wouldnae spend eight fookin’ hours callin’ inta a bloody radio station jus’ ta win ‘em for ya.”

Maud gasped and Arthur yelped.

“You did it?” Leslie asked, inching forward as well.

“Aye,” Shadwell nodded.

“Did what?” Tracy and Aziraphale asked as one voice.

“A ticket ta Crowley’s debut solo show at The Bandstand tomorrow night.” Shadwell passed the envelope over to Aziraphale. “Went t’pick it up this evenin’.”

Aziraphale’s fingers shook as he lifted the unsealed flap at the back of the envelope and slid out the two pieces of glossy card.

“Is this real?” Aziraphale didn’t want to believe that his friends could be capable of tricking him so cruelly.

“Yes, Aziraphale,” Maud said, reaching over to clasp his arm. “We’ve been trying to win you a ticket all day. There’s only meant to be about 300 people at this thing, just music press and prizewinners. We thought, perhaps, you could see if there was anything still there.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath to try and calm his fractured nerves.

“You didn’t tell me any of this!” Tracy filled the silence. “And on my birthday!”

“Tracy, we love you, but you’ve never kept a secret in your life,” Leslie said sensibly.

Maud nodded in agreement although she had the grace to look sympathetic about it.

“Aye, s’a nice surprise though,” said Shadwell.

Somewhere between mollified and insulted, Tracy sat back with her arms folded.

“I shouldn’t go, should I?” Aziraphale asked as if the last minute of conversation hadn’t happened.

A collective groan erupted from almost every other throat in the room.

“Tha’s the closest thing to a solid day’s work I’ve done in years, ye better go!” Shadwell declared. “And yer takin’ me wi’ ye!”

It felt a lot like not having to make the decision himself- it felt liberating, it felt like permission. Because of course Aziraphale wanted to go, even if it was just to see for himself that whatever they’d had was truly gone. He tucked the tickets back into the envelope and smiled with the warmest and most genuine pleasure he’d felt in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> There is no statute of limitations in the UK.  
> The English legal definition of rape is very precise and, in this writer's opinion, incorrect. 
> 
> Do you all still want Shadwell kicked out onto the streets?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting there! 
> 
> I'm quite nervous about this chapter, if I'm honest. Doing something I've not done before.
> 
> *Editing to add that [THIS](https://www.picturebritain.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/02.jpg) is pickle.
> 
> Cheese and pickle sandwiches are about the equivalent of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the US in terms of being a common, easy food to give kids or as a snack.

Aziraphale closed the bookshop early without giving any explanation to Newt’s many questions. It felt forbidden to say anything out loud about his plans, his hopes, as if they were so fragile that any kind of attention would cause them to float off on the breeze. Closing early had become increasingly rare over the past ten or so months, Aziraphale being much more likely to forget the time and only wander home after realising that it had got dark outside.

He hurried Newt out of the shop and waved him off towards his bus stop before locking the door and crossing the road towards the blue door of his building. Shadwell was perched on the arm of the sofa when Aziraphale got in, clearly already dressed and ready to go.

“We don’t need to leave for two hours,” Aziraphale said, hanging up his jacket. “I’m going to shower and have something to eat. Are you just going to sit there?”

“Oh, aye, I couldnae wait,” Shadwell sounded as excited as Aziraphale had ever heard him. “Didnae wanna risk being late.”

“By two hours?” Aziraphale asked and then shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know how long you’ve been sitting there already.”

He headed off to the bathroom to turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up. He was resolutely not thinking about what to wear. He’d been not thinking about it all day, as well as most of the night before. All these hours of definitely  _ not _ thinking about it have left him no closer to deciding on an outfit. Not that he’d been thinking about it.

In the shower, Aziraphale tried to relax. He was just going out to a musical concert with a friend, nothing unusual. Except that he’d just thought of Shadwell as a  _ friend _ and that was not something he was prepared to examine at that moment.

Banishing that thought, Aziraphale let the water sluice down his back and tried to remember everything he’d ever read about relaxation and dealing with stress. No matter how he searched through his memory, one answer kept popping up, needling at him until it was all he could think of.

With something like resignation, Aziraphale took himself in hand and braced his other forearm against the tiled wall of the shower. Closing his eyes, he tugged at his cock impatiently, almost willing himself to hardness. If this could undo some of the tension he’s been carrying all day, it’d be worth it. Aziraphale’s head fell forward against his arm and his strokes became more forceful, driven by intent. 

The stimulation of his hand was enough to build an insistent kind of pleasure, a pressure that suggested at least an approaching satisfaction if not the kind of release that could leave Aziraphale weak and trembling all over. His wet palm twisted over the hard length of himself, efficient and emotionless.

Unbidden, Aziraphale’s mind summoned the memory of straddling Crowley’s narrow hips and holding them together, sharing in his pleasure. He shook his head, dislodging the thought and focusing on chasing down his impending orgasm. Remembering how Crowley’s hand had felt, wrapped around his cock, whilst the insistent hardness of him had rutted against Aziraphale’s backside. How they had pleased each other, laid together, kissed and held each other in the early light. Before he could gather himself enough to banish the memories, Aziraphale reached his peak and came in his hand, hot and sticky, driven by memories of a few stolen moments.

Watching his come wash down the drain, Aziraphale noted, in a rather abstract way, that he did feel considerably less stressed. His body felt looser, more at ease than it had before. His heart, however, was as pained as it had been on the morning he’d watched Crowley leave. He was just setting himself up for more heartache by going to this concert. Crowley didn’t want to see him. Wasn’t ten months of silence enough of a sign?

He’d almost decided to send Shadwell off on his own, confident that he’d have any number of friends willing to take the last-minute ticket, when his phone beeped and buzzed in the pocket of his bathrobe.

_ [Tracy 17:11] _ _  
_ _ Brother dearest, I’m sure that ur thinking _ _  
_ _ about not going 2nite. Stop it. The cards _ _  
_ _ say you’ve got great things coming _

_ [17:11] _ _  
_ _ Thanks, Trace x _

Suitably chastened by his irritatingly clairvoyant sister, Aziraphale wandered into the kitchen to make a sandwich. He’d go to the concert, enjoy the music and the atmosphere, hide at the back and make a quick exit at the end. Crowley would be firmly back in place as an unreachable idol and Aziraphale wouldn’t risk getting his heart trampled again.

He spotted a new slab of cheap angel cake next to the bread bin, one of Shadwell’s “contributions” to the kitchen. That was a more comfortable memory, awkwardly offering a slice of 79p cake to a music god, not the sort of move that could stir unwelcome memories.

Except that Crowley had joked about the cake, he’d kissed Aziraphale and teased him about the cake. Aziraphale was starting to fear that he’d have to move house just to avoid all the casual memories tied into the flat. It was as if he hadn’t spent the past 10 months living around the spectre of Crowley’s presence in his home. The imminent crossing of their paths made everything that much sharper.

With a sigh, Aziraphale finished making his cheese and pickle sandwich and sat at the little table to eat it. He could hear Shadwell still moving about the living room and that was an interaction he’d rather avoid whilst feeling this vulnerable.

Sandwich eaten, Aziraphale headed back to the bathroom where he shaved carefully and slowly, knowing that he was finding excuses to delay the moment when he’d have to leave the flat and commit to seeing Crowley in the flesh. He was considering styling his hair with some of the ancient products collecting dust in the bathroom when he realised how ridiculous he was being. Allowing his vanity the tiniest toehold, Aziraphale spritzed his hair with salt spray and scrunched the patches that tended towards fluffiness.

The issue of what to wear was no closer to being solved. Shadwell had been wearing ripped jeans and a  _ Demons _ shirt which, other than not existing in Aziraphale’s wardrobe, simply weren’t to his tastes. He was sure he had something that would be suitable, but the number of options and fear of making the wrong choice had him somewhat paralysed.

“We gotta be leavin’ in ten minutes!” Shadwell called from the living room.

_ Fuck _ , Aziraphale thought, frantically. He grabbed a pair of charcoal grey trousers and a shirt the colour of good denim. As he was rolling the sleeves up his forearms, Aziraphale caught sight of something he’d forgotten he even owned. Pushed right against the side of the wardrobe, a dark mushroom-coloured waistcoat hung. Aziraphale had been too self-conscious to wear it out, considering it something of a statement piece, but that had been a while ago and his style had changed a little since then. He shrugged it on and buttoned it up before looking at his reflection.

The effect was rather slimming and it lengthened his torso, making him appear a bit taller. Still, something wasn’t quite right and Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on the problem. Perhaps it was all in his head, perhaps he was just conjuring up reasons to try and get out of tonight. He forced himself out of his bedroom without a backwards glance.

“Alright, I’m ready,” he announced, “let’s go.”

Shadwell jumped up off the sofa and grinned impishly at Aziraphale as he made his way to the door.

“Tickets, wallet, keys!” he called, patting his pockets.

Aziraphale scooped his wallet and keys off the table by the door and went to follow Shadwell out of the flat only to find him standing in the doorway, looking at Aziraphale with his mouth twisted to one side.

“I’m jus’ gonnae...” he trailed off, his hands coming up to Aziraphale’s collar.

Aziraphale froze, utterly lost, as Shadwell unbuttoned the top two buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulled his collar open. Apparently, Aziraphale had not only missed the moment that they had become friends, but also the fact that they were the kind of friends who adjusted each other's clothes. His entire world view was tilting on its axis.

“Tha’s better,” Shadwell announced, turning back towards the door, “you dinnae look like such a stuck up tosser now.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said stupidly, unsure if he was being complimented or insulted, “thank you, I suppose.”

Shadwell barely grunted in response and Aziraphale was left shaking his head in wonder as he followed him out to the street.

The walk to Covent Garden and The Bandstand wasn’t long at all, even with the way that Shadwell needed to stop every third pace to relight his battered little rollie. Aziraphale realised that he actually very rarely saw him smoke, for all that he was forever carrying at least one cigarette on his person.

“Look, I don’t want you to think you’ve got to babysit me tonight or anything,” Aziraphale said during one of their many stops. “You should just enjoy your evening as you usually would.”

Shadwell took a drag of his cigarette- at least Aziraphale assumed that’s what he did with his hand cupped around it so protectively- and gave a nonplussed sort of look.

“Aye, I weren’t plannin’ on followin’ yer ‘round,” he said with a shrug. “Ye can find me if yer need, else I’ll see yer back home tomorrow.”

He knocked Aziraphale with his elbow and gave a frankly alarming approximation of a suggestive wink.

_ Well,  _ thought Aziraphale,  _ that is entirely uncalled for conjecture! _

Shadwell gave Aziraphale his ticket as they stood outside the venue waiting for the doors to open. Looking around the queue, Aziraphale was pleased to see that he was neither the oldest nor the most conservatively dressed. He felt pretty good, waiting around in the evening sunlight with excited concert-goers, all looking forward to a rare treat and having very little idea of what awaited them. To kill some time, Shadwell and Aziraphale made a game of guessing who was press and who was a fan.

Finally, the doors opened and the crowd began to filter into the small venue. It was rather dark inside and Aziraphale took a moment to get his bearings. As they entered the room from the rear, a low stage was set up immediately across the space with a stool, microphone stand, and a guitar all sitting on it. His breath caught in his throat as the crowd parted and Aziraphale recognised the guitar that Crowley had played in his flat.

“Drink?” Shadwell offered, shocking Aziraphale out of his reverie. He pointed to the bar and pulled a questioning face.

Aziraphale could not think of a single time when Shadwell had offered him a drink before. It seemed foolish to pass up a once in a lifetime opportunity.

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said as he followed Shadwell to the bar. “Oh dear, wine on  _ tap _ ? I’ll have a bottle of Bulmers, please.”

Shadwell laughed and ordered their drinks, Aziraphale kept expecting to have to pay but, sure enough, Shadwell produced his own wallet and a genuine banknote from within it. It truly was an unusual day.

The back of the room had some seats: stools around tables, low sofas, some mismatched garden furniture. Shadwell made a beeline for them, his pint of stout held high in one hand, before dropping into a metal frame chair and taking a long sip. Aziraphale hesitated, unsure if he was welcome or not.

“Sit down, ye great idiot.” And there wasn’t much to argue with there.

People kept filtering in, steadily filling up the space with physical presence, noise, and excitement. Some people jostled for position along the barrier in front of the stage, eager to secure the best view they could. Aziraphale watched them, wishing he could share in their simple excitement. Something rather like fear and a lot like regret was gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach.

Shadwell drained the last of his drink and stood up. The combined noise of an excited crowd and background music made conversation difficult but he managed to express to Aziraphale that he was going to find a spot from which to watch the show. Aziraphale nodded his understanding and tried to offer a reassuring smile. From the way Shadwell winced, he feared he had missed that mark by some distance.

The lights dimmed and the crowd cheered loudly enough to make Aziraphale’s ears ring. There may only be a few hundred of them, but they were exceptionally enthusiastic. A man took the stage, stepping up to the microphone a little hesitantly. A spotlight shifted and Aziraphale recognised Ligur, drummer of  _ The Demons _ .

“Um, hello, everyone,” Ligur began, a far cry from the confidently unsettling presence he’d been when Aziraphale had met him. “Crowley’s gonna be out in just a minute-” he was cut off by near-hysterical screaming from the crowd. He grinned and cast a nervous glance off stage, clearly unused to this kind of reaction. “Ha, OK, keen aren’t you? He just asked me to pop out and say he’s really grateful that you’ve all come to join him tonight and he hopes, we  _ all  _ hope, that you’ll enjoy what he’s been working on. Right, uh, thanks.”

Ligur raised one hand to about chest height in an awkward sort of wave and then made to leave the stage. Aziraphale caught the briefest, heart-stopping glimpse of black denim and red hair before his view was obliterated by the jostling of the crowd. He’d have to stand if he wanted to see more. And he did, he really did. 

Sticking to the edge of the room, Aziraphale inched closer until he was loosely surrounded by people without being crushed. He caught the tail end of Crowley and Ligur hugging, Ligur’s clearly mouthed comment of “knock ‘em dead” and Crowley’s answering grin. It was, Aziraphale reflected, a masterful move. Crowley and Ligur were sending a clear message that, whatever new venture Crowley was launching, the band were behind him, perhaps even involved. Rumours of a split or tension were being destroyed before they could gain traction.

“Evening everyone!” Crowley’s voice flowed through speakers and directly into Aziraphale’s stupid heart.

He could hardly stand to watch as Crowley bent to pick up his guitar, swept the hair out of his eyes, and plugged in the cable that fed into his back pocket. This had been a ridiculous, foolish, painful idea. He never should have come. How could he stand here and watch the man he loved perform without having his heart break into a million pieces? Crowley had hurt him, true, but this time Aziraphale was only hurting himself.

With his hands clenched into fists at his sides, Aziraphale took a step towards the door, tears stinging at his eyes. A single chord filled the air and Crowley began to sing, freezing Aziraphale to the spot.

It was as beautiful as he’d remembered. It was like being back in the rooftop garden, watching Crowley’s hands draw exquisite melodies from the strings. For a moment he could forget about the crowd, about the past ten months, the empty ache that had made a home of his chest. Without meaning to, Aziraphale turned back towards the stage, utterly captivated.

The audience calmed, the energy muting to match the performance. Aziraphale’s view of the stage became more consistent without the waving arms and bouncing heads of his fellow attendees. Crowley was beautiful, of course, spotlights highlighting the flame-red curls of his hair, the deadly sharpness of his cheekbones, and,  _ oh _ , the soft expressiveness of his mouth. Aziraphale was so very fucked.

He resolved to stay for as long as he could stand it, hiding in the shadows at the back and drinking in as much of Crowley’s presence as he could in this precious bubble of opportunity. He’d have to absorb enough to last a lifetime, rationed out during his loneliest moments. It would have to be enough.

After each song, the cheers and applause would reach new heights. Crowley came out of his shell in ways that Aziraphale fancied few others would notice, laughing more freely and offering little anecdotes about the songs. Aziraphale had the distinct pleasure of being proved right- people really were enthused by Crowley’s acoustic renditions of Demons material. Not that he would take any credit for the idea; so many people must have said the same thing to Crowley over the years.

“Thanks, everyone,” Crowley said after applause for  _ Changeling  _ had died down. “I’ve got an old favourite for you now, but, I’ll warn you, I’ve changed some of the lyrics so, ha, good luck singing along.”

His smile was so warm with just an edge of cheekiness; Aziraphale wanted to climb onto the stage and kiss him where he stood.

Recognising the opening to _ The Fall _ almost immediately, Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat. Even with Crowley’s warning, he found himself singing along under his breath. The song was so intrinsically linked to Crowley’s presence in Aziraphale’s home, and the apology he’d made. Tears prickled behind his eyelids.

The song was still his favourite, perhaps more so now. If he closed his eyes, it felt almost as though Crowley was singing it just for him. He almost didn’t catch the subtle change of the lyrics in the chorus the first time, but the last three stanzas had his full attention.

_ I’m in too deep, _

_ This falling feeling can’t last, _

_ I’ll need too much, _

_ We know the patterns of the past. _

_ Things seem so dark and cold, _

_ And I’m lying in the dirt, _

_ My hand was there for you to hold, _

_ Now we’re both just hurt. _

_ Too far, too fast, _

_ Is there another way to fall? _

_ Scared of myself, _

_ Because I want it all, _

_ I want your all. _

It felt impossible and yet so personal. If he hadn’t known the original lyrics so well, Aziraphale would have dismissed it, but there it was. Crowley was singing this to someone he wanted. Aziraphale wanted to shake himself; the sheer egotism of thinking he was the only man to have got close to Crowley was beyond the pale. His heart was trying to run away with itself and he had to squash down that impulse or be lost forever. There might have been any number of people in Crowley’s life who might have inspired the change, he knew that. Yet, his feet moved under him, taking him closer to the stage.

“Thank you, thank you,” Crowley said with a smile as he pulled the stool over and adjusted the mic stand. “I now have to say the worst five words a musician can say to an audience: here is a new song!”

Aziraphale pressed forward, squeezing between people who didn’t want to let him pass. He had to get to where he could see Crowley clearly, he had to see his face and know if he was imagining this. He was just a few people back from the barrier when Crowley began to sing again.

_ Do you hate me _ _  
_ _ now that you know _ _  
_ _ I wasn’t ever _ _  
_ _ the man on show _

_ It’s better this way _ _  
_ _ Lord, though it hurts _ _  
_ _ I still need you here _ _  
_ _ And I think that’s worse _

_ The best thing I could ever be _ _  
_ _ Is whatever you could make of me _ _  
_ _ Someone who can listen _ _  
_ _ Someone less stubborn _ _  
_ _ Is it too late to be, _ _  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you? _

_ Will you still haunt me _ _  
_ _ Once I’ve forgotten _ _  
_ _ All that it was _ _  
_ _ Just to hold your hand? _

_ All I could want to be _ _  
_ _ Is anything you’d take of me _ _  
_ _ Someone who hears _ _  
_ _ Someone more worthy _ _  
_ _ Is it too late to be, _ _  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you? _

_ Is it too late to be, _ _  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you? _

_ I’ll take this ugly pity _ _  
_ _ Bury it in a hundred songs _ _  
_ _ Hope you can hear my sorry _ _  
_ _ For each of my many wrongs. _

_ Is it too late to be _ _  
_ _ Is it too late to be _ _  
_ _ The me who gets to keep you? _ _  
_ _ Is it too late to be _ _  
_ _ Is it too late to be _ __  
_ Is it too late to be _ _  
_ __ Yours?

Hope burned bright and hot in Aziraphale’s chest as tear left scalding tracks down his cheeks. The venue was so quiet that he could call out and be heard, if he chose. He was closer to Crowley than he’d ever believed he’d be again, but he couldn’t speak.

Crowley’s eyes were closed, his palm laid across the strings, and slowly the crowd came to life with their appreciation. Aziraphale watched, Crowley becoming little more than a blurry shape through tears, as people screamed, cheered, and clapped around him.

He blinked, clearing his vision and found Crowley meeting his gaze with eyes just as watery. He looked pale, shocked even. Aziraphale regretted coming immediately, regretted making Crowley face him without warning.

“Stay.” Crowley’s voice was everywhere but Aziraphale knew who he was addressing. “Please.”

Stunned, Aziraphale found himself nodding and watching as Crowley bolted off stage in apparent panic.

Moments later he was back, smile in place and fingers already plucking at his guitar.

“Sorry about that, everyone! It’s my prerogative as an artist to be a bit weird sometimes, gotta keep you on your toes,” Crowley laughed as he explained himself but he didn’t look back at Aziraphale. “Hope you liked that one, I’ve got a couple more before calling it a night.”

Aziraphale would stay to the end, but he couldn’t bring himself to stay that close to the stage only to be ignored. He shuffled back through the crowd to where people were less densely packed and took a deep breath. It might not mean anything.

A hand landed somewhat gently on his shoulder, startling him nonetheless. Aziraphale turned to find Ligur smiling at him.

“Evenin’,” he said, “Aziraphale is it?” Aziraphale nodded, bewildered and unsure whether Ligur was aiming for friendly or menacing. “Great to meet you, mate! Thought I’d never get the chance, honestly.” He held out his hand for Aziraphale to shake. “Crowley asked me to bring you backstage, if you fancy it.”

Sagging in relief, Aziraphale laughed.

“I thought you might have been about to kick me out!” he explained. “Although, I suppose he wouldn’t really send you to do that. Hardly working the door here, are you?” His nervous babbling only made Ligur smile wider.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Ligur began to lead Aziraphale out of the room as he spoke. “Didn’t you interview me?”

Aziraphale had no idea how to answer that question and maintain any shred of dignity. Luckily, he was spared by someone recognising Ligur and nervously asking for a selfie. Aziraphale offered to take the picture instead and then ended up taking five more as people around them caught on to what was happening.

Once they were free, Ligur took Aziraphale to the side of the stage where Crowley was still playing. Beelzebub stood in the shadows, watching intently and twirling a plectrum through their fingers. Aziraphale tried to be unobtrusive and out of the way, but Ligur tugged him by the elbow until he was standing beside the diminutive guitarist.

“Oi, Beez,” Ligur said, knocking them with his body, “ _ this _ is Aziraphale.” His eyebrows did something very complicated.

“Oh? Oh!” their eyes grew wide and they looked between Ligur and Aziraphale. “Hi! I’m Beelzebub. Fuck me, I can’t believe you’re here. I really thought he’d bottle it.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale held his hands up in confusion. “I’m a little lost here.”

Beelzebub punched him in the shoulder, laughing.

“We’ve heard so much about you. When Crowley said he was putting you on the guest list, Dagon had to pay me £50. But then the useless idiot said he couldn’t bring himself to actually message you. I thought for sure I was gonna have to pay her back.” Beelzebub rattled through an explanation that explained nothing at all.

“I’m on the guest list?” Aziraphale asked, more confused than ever.

Ligur and Beelzebub exchanged a look.

“You didn’t know?” Beelzebub asked carefully.

“No, I haven’t heard from Crowley since August.”

Another look passed between the two musicians, Aziraphale could see their confusion as clear as day.

“How come you’re here, then?” Ligur asked at last. “Not that you’re not welcome, obviously.”

“My friends spent a whole day trying to win tickets from a radio station, got the last pair.” Aziraphale felt dizzy.

Crowley had wanted him here, at least a bit. That had to mean something.

Loud cheering drew Aziraphale’s attention to the stage. Crowley was back on his feet and directing the crowd in singing with him. He was in his element and Aziraphale wanted to save this moment in his memory forever.

“Hey,” Beelzebub said softly, “you’ll sort it out, don’t worry.”

Crowley came bounding off the stage, still waving at the adoring mass screaming his name. He handed his guitar to a roadie and approached Aziraphale, reaching for him as soon as they were out of sight, his hands closing around Aziraphale’s upper arms and pulling him close into something that was almost a hug but with just enough of a controlled distance between their bodies.

“Can I kiss you?” Crowley asked directly into Aziraphale’s ear.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, “please.”

Crowley tasted of sweat and beer, kissing him frantically and needfully as if Crowley was trying to convince himself that Aziraphale was really with him. He broke away only to dive straight back in. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and held their bodies together, just as eager for the contact.

“I have to go back out there,” Crowley said against Aziraphale’s lips, “please,  _ please _ , don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t, I’ll be here.”

Crowley kissed him again, hard and fast. Pulling away, he ran his hands through his hair, took a towel from a different roadie to scrub over his face, and then looped his guitar back over his shoulder. With a disbelieving laugh and a little shake of his head, Crowley bounced back onto the stage.

“You’ll be fine,” Beelzebub repeated with a wink and they walked past with their own guitar.

Beelzebub and Ligur joined Crowley on stage to a roar that would have been impressive for a crowd three times the size of the one assembled. A moment later, Dagon rushed past Aziraphale with a bass in her hand and a sheepish look.

One of the roadies showed Aziraphale a good place to stand to watch, clearing a little room for him. As he watched, Ligur nudged Dagon and nodded over to where Aziraphale stood. With his mind struggling to cope, he waved awkwardly. Dagon’s jaw dropped open. He couldn’t make out the rest of the exchange but there seemed to be a fair amount of teasing aimed at Crowley. He looked so happy and embarrassed all at once.

Together, the band played an acoustic version of  _ Eden Lost  _ with the entire audience singing along and swaying. The sheer joy on their faces as they came off the stage was like a tonic. Aziraphale thought that if it were possible to bottle a feeling, he could change the world with a single drop. Crowley was last off the stage, but only by a few steps. He bustled past his bandmates to put himself between them and Aziraphale. Unable to see his face, Aziraphale could only guess at the look he gave them that prevented any more teasing, but there were still grins all around so it couldn’t have been bad, really.

“Come on,” Crowley said as he turned to Aziraphale, “I need to change.”

Aziraphale let Crowley lead him through a warren of hallways full of people rushing about, moving equipment, and pulling up cabling. Finally, Crowley opened a door and dragged Aziraphale through it.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, they were on each other once more. Aziraphale couldn’t tell who had moved first but as he seemed to want it at least as much as Crowley did, there didn’t seem to be any point in examining who did what.

This kiss was slower, more cautious. The frenzy of rediscovery having died down to tender reconnection. Crowley’s lips parted, gentle, searching, the tip of his tongue just touching Aziraphale’s bottom lip. With a moan, Aziraphale drew him in tighter and allowed the kiss to deepen.

Crowley broke away first, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s, gasping lungfuls of air.

“I am so fucking sorry, Aziraphale,” he said. Aziraphale kissed him again, silencing the apology. “No, no,” Crowley pulled back from the kiss and Aziraphale let him, reflexively taking a half step away. Crowley’s fingers tightened in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt, keeping him from going too far. “Don’t go, I just- fuck, just look at you- I need to get the words out. All I do is apologise.”

Aziraphale tried to hush him, he didn’t want to hear it, not when they were together and touching and Crowley was looking at him like that. Crowley refused to be hushed.

“Please,” Crowley begged. Aziraphale took hold of his hands, prying them away from his shirt to hold Crowley’s fingers loosely. “I’m sorry,” Crowley continued, “you must be so tired of hearing that from me. I’m a coward and an idiot and a cowardly idiot. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

He was trembling, his fingers shivering against Aziraphale’s palms. Knowing,  _ knowing,  _ it was the right thing to do, Aziraphale stepped closer and lifted Crowley’s hands to rest around the back of his neck so his own hands were free to hold Crowley’s waist. He brought them closer by fractions, looking Crowley in the eyes.

“It’s alright, I don’t need to hear it right now,” Aziraphale said, pausing only to kiss the tip of Crowley’s nose. “I’m here and I still care about you so much. Can you just be here with me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Crowley marked each word with a kiss to Aziraphale’s face. “Yes.”

Laughing, Aziraphale caught Crowley’s mouth with his own and kissed him until dizziness threatened to overtake him.

Crowley jerked away and turned aside to cough suddenly. Groaning dramatically, he rolled his head back and slowly disentangled himself. Aziraphale made no move to stop him, feeling a little concerned at the cough.

“S’just my throat,” Crowley explained as he picked up a rucksack and rooted through it. “Ah ha! There you are!” He pulled a tartan thermos out of the bag and started opening it up. “Vocal coach insists I drink this toxic potion every night to protect my throat. I’d swear she’s trying to kill me but, fuck me if it’s not working.”

Crowley shrugged, dropping the plastic lid back into his bag and reaching for a mug on the sideboard instead. Aziraphale couldn’t look away from the thermos in his hands. It couldn’t be, it was just a coincidence. That’s all.

Crowley poured the steaming drink into his mug and offered the thermos over.

“I mean, get a whiff of that,” he paused, “Aziraphale, are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answered honestly. “That’s an interesting thermos you’ve got.” His throat felt like he’d been eating razor blades.

Crowley looked at the flask, back up at Aziraphale, and then at the flask once more.

“You gave it to me. I didn’t forget.” He sounded uncertain like perhaps Aziraphale would be upset.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale melted, the tension leaving him in a rush. “You really are a fool.”

Crowley put the thermos on the sideboard and sank into a chair, Aziraphale followed suit and took the seat nearest Crowley, leaning towards him.

“I’m just stupid over you, Aziraphale. Utterly gone. I’ve written you so many songs, you’ve no idea. The rest of the band are sick of it, I’m sure.” Crowley took a swallow of his drink and pulled a face. “I think Ligur might actually have a tattoo that says ‘nothing rhymes with Aziraphale’. I carry around the flask you gave me because it’s all I have from you. How pathetic is that?”

“Not pathetic,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Which one of them was it, by the way? Who contacted you?” Crowley’s gaze darted between Aziraphale’s eyes.

“None of them, if you’d believe it! Shadwell won tickets off the radio to get me here.” Aziraphale spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“ _ Shadwell _ ?!” Crowley shook his head before draining the contents of his mug and grimacing, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and giving a full-body shiver. Aziraphale adored him. “I’ve missed you so much, you know? I know I fucked up, I do, but you’re here so there’s a chance, isn’t there?”

Aziraphale had to laugh, not unkindly, but just at the absurdity of Crowley asking him if they stood a chance after the passion and quantity of their kisses.

“Yes, you daft thing, there’s a chance!”

Crowley grinned, looking soppier than he had any right to. He shuffled forward to meet Aziraphale’s lips in a gentle, chaste kiss.

“Oh, Christ!” Aziraphale exclaimed, sitting back sharply. “That really does taste vile, doesn’t it?”

Crowley nodded and gestured, his eyes wide in a comical kind of “I told you so” charade, standing up to put the cap back on the flask. As he passed, Aziraphale caught hold of his hip with one hand and tugged him down onto his lap. Crowley stared as Aziraphale brought one hand up to cup his cheek and drew them together for a deeper, more meaningful kiss, disgusting tonic taste be damned. Aziraphale’s other hand ran up Crowley’s back, pressing their bodies closer together.

Crowley moved to trail kisses along Aziraphale’s jaw, making happy noises as Aziraphale stroked up and down his spine.

“Why am I so soft around you? What’s your secret?” Crowley asked, nibbling at Aziraphale’s earlobe.

“You don’t seem soft to me,” Aziraphale said suggestively, lifting his hips just enough to make a point.

“Fuck, I really do need to get changed.” Crowley started to pull away, Aziraphale’s hands giving token resistance. “No, no, come on. I’m all sweaty and gross. Let me change.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Aziraphale released him. As soon as he was standing, Crowley stripped his shirt off over his head.

“Do you need some privacy?” Aziraphale asked, sitting upright and straightening his clothes.

Crowley gave him a funny look as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“From you? No, you’re fine.”

He wriggled out of his jeans, kicking his boots off with them. Aziraphale couldn’t look away from him. The way he stood in just his underwear- black of course- completely at ease even though they both knew that his arousal was as obvious as ever.

Aziraphale watched him scrub at his body with a towel, drying off the worst of the sweat and turning his skin faintly pink. Out of the rucksack came a black tank top and some slouchy harem trousers. He pulled the trousers on, settling them low on his hips in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart skip. It was a shame that the tank top covered it all up, but Aziraphale still knew what the low-slung waist of those trousers had looked like, underneath.

After stuffing his discarded clothes into the bag, Crowley sat on the floor by Aziraphale’s feet to put on a pair of plimsolls. His head fell back against Aziraphale’s knee and, quite by instinct, Aziraphale buried his fingers in Crowley’s hair, stroking and petting down to the back of his neck. He saw Crowley’s eyes close just as he heard an accompanying sigh of contentment. It was a moment of peace that was all theirs.

“I could suck you off right now,” Crowley said gently, an offer wrapped in a joke.

The thought was tempting, Aziraphale couldn’t deny it. Crowley’s almost naked form and the intensity of their shared kisses had not left him unaffected. But there was still a large pachyderm lurking in the corner, Aziraphale couldn’t commit to this yet.

“Best not,” Aziraphale managed to say, his fingers still stroking through Crowley’s hair. “I imagine I’m about as sweaty as you right now.”

Crowley chuckled and leaned into Aziraphale’s leg a little more.

A rapid burst of knocking at the door broke their bubble of happiness.

“Crowley? Your car is here,” a woman’s voice called from the other side. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in two minutes,” Crowley called back before shifting round to face Aziraphale. “Spend the night with me?”

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale says honestly.

Crowley beamed at him.

“The Ritz, the room’s under Saul Hudson-” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in question, Crowley huffed a laugh, “-that’s Slash, you philistine! Will you meet me there?”

“Why wouldn’t I come with you now?” Aziraphale felt the familiar cold spread of fear through his stomach.

Crowley sucked his bottom teeth and looked up at Aziraphale with regret.

“I have to protect you from this.” He got to his feet, kissing Aziraphale’s hand once it had slipped from his hair.

“Why don’t I get a say?” Aziraphale asked as he stood up, trying to keep his tone even.

“Aziraphale,  _ please _ , you don’t know what they’re like.” Crowley was rushing around, stuffing things back into his bag and checking for anything he was missing. He grabbed the thermos last and tucked it in carefully. “Please, I only want what’s best for you.”

“Crowley!” The woman was back at the door.

Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s cheek and squeezed his hand before darting to the door.

“Don’t you see-” Aziraphale started. Crowley opened the door and took his guitar case from the woman on the other side, striding off. “-that you’re doing it again.” Aziraphale said to the empty room. He stood there for too long, wondering if Crowley might come back to let him finish. He didn’t.

With nothing else to do, Aziraphale made his way out of the venue and into the cool night air. He took a deep breath and looked up at the moon, willing himself to retain his self-control. There was no sign of Shadwell in the last few stragglers on the pavements outside so, after glancing towards Leicester Square and the direction that would take him down Piccadilly to the Ritz, Aziraphale walked home with only his tumultuous thoughts for company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadwell redemption continues! 
> 
> Aziraphale grows a spine!
> 
> Lur wrote _songs?!_
> 
> How we feeling, sports fans?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! What fun!
> 
> I'd like to direct your attention towards this incredible [Soho playlist on spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4xPyM503qH5XFSbMLnHVfB?si=lK_VyVTYSi-x98v-UnfrvA) by MovesLikeBucky which I've been listening to pretty much every time I work on this fic now! It breaks my heart routinely.

Shadwell wasn’t in when Aziraphale got home, a small mercy in the face of the bottomless void of misery that he was staring into.

He’d made the right choice, he was confident of that, at least. Even though it hurt him like eating shards of glass, Aziraphale knew that running after Crowley would have been a temporary patch on a foundational flaw. Any relationship that might have followed would have been short-lived and fraught with discord. It was better,  _ it was _ , to walk away before he got hurt even more, before he showed his heart and had to pick up whatever shattered pieces Crowley would undoubtedly leave. 

There was no doubt in Aziraphale’s mind that he and Crowley shared something real, something that might have had a chance if they’d met under different circumstances, in another lifetime. This power imbalance between them, such as it was, had choked them before they’d even begun. It hurt, Aziraphale ached with the knowledge of it, but what choice did he have? Crowley couldn’t change who he was, what he was. Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of asking it of him. Just as Crowley shouldn’t have asked Aziraphale to sneak around and be a secret.

Finding himself standing in the kitchen, Aziraphale pulled a clean glass out of the dishwasher and wrestled with the iced-up door of the freezer until it popped open. In the bottom drawer, next to a bag of peas and half a box of mini milks, he found his prize: a frosted bottle of vodka. He poured a measure into the glass and downed it in one before closing the freezer and wandering to his bedroom with the bottle and glass in his hands.

Not normally one for spirits, Aziraphale sped right past tipsy and right into gently sozzled rather more quickly than he anticipated. He drank great gulps of ice-cold vodka as he paced his room and argued with himself in decreasingly slurred terms. His phone laid silently on the bed where he’d thrown it.

He wanted to message Crowley, to at least explain why he wasn’t currently in his room nor on his way there. It was the right and polite thing to do, Aziraphale thought. But he’d already tried to explain, hadn’t he? He’d tried to have this conversation in person and Crowley had walked away without listening. Maybe he didn’t deserve any more of Aziraphale’s energy.

Stripping off rather clumsily, Aziraphale tumbled into his bed and left the rest of the vodka out of reach. He’d had enough to regret the next morning, no need to make the inevitable hangover that much worse. Barely able to focus, he scooped up his phone and squinted at the bright little screen. No messages. No calls. Crowley had to know that Aziraphale wasn’t coming by now, surely. 

Maybe he didn’t care as much as Aziraphale had thought. Maybe he’d just wanted a sure thing and a warm body in his bed. Maybe something better had come up. It wouldn’t be difficult to find something better than Aziraphale, would it? He could feel himself growing more disconsolate and maudlin as the alcohol continued making its way into his bloodstream. Crowley could do so much better than boring, stale, mild Aziraphale. He’d been foolishly harbouring a fantasy that could never come true.

And yet, as something between sleep and drunken oblivion claimed him, Aziraphale could still hear Crowley singing a question through the fog. Asking, gently, if it was too late. 

Hours later, Aziraphale’s phone woke him with a shrill alarm, dragging him up from unconsciousness into the sharp, harsh realities of morning. He wasn’t grateful for a single moment of it. Without even opening his eyes, Aziraphale reached for his phone and slapped at it until the alarm silenced.

His head throbbed when he moved, like his brain had been pickled and was now floating in its own jar of goo, bumping into the sides as it sloshed around. The idea of staying in bed all day, feeling sorry for himself, and maybe ordering an obscene amount of comfort food, appealed to him greatly. That wasn’t the sort of person that Aziraphale wanted to be, though. So, groaning, he forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

After brushing his teeth and standing in the shower for a few minutes, he started to feel like he might be able to do a passable impression of a human being. Once he was clean and not just wet, he felt almost able to face the most basic of his daily tasks at the bookshop. Dressed in his comfiest clothes, with a mug of tea and a banana to deal with, Aziraphale began to accept that he probably would live through this extended heartbreak. 

On his short walk from home to the shop, Aziraphale nipped into the convenience store to pick up some milk and then almost dropped it as he fumbled his way through unlocking the shop door. The warning beeps of the alarm system weren’t any help either; Aziraphale cursed his way through disarming the thing. The silence was welcome, for as long as it might last.

He booted up the till system and tidied up a few things that had been left on the counter before turning on the main lights and heading into the little back office to put the milk away. He tossed out the empty bottle that he must have put back in the fridge in his absent-minded nervousness the night before and stepped back into the shop.

Crowley stood awkwardly beside the counter, a large box at his feet, and his hands twisting at the cuffs of his sleeves in an obvious display of anxiety. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked far worse than Aziraphale felt but the pang of petty satisfaction at that was short-lived, overpowered by shock at seeing him at all.

With a mild dose of irritation, Aziraphale glanced up at the empty space above the door where the bell had previously lived. It wasn’t Crowley’s fault that he’d managed to sneak in unannounced, but Aziraphale wasn’t particularly interested in accurately assigning blame at that moment.

“Hello Aziraphale,” Crowley said after a few long seconds of heavy silence.

“Hello Crowley,”Aziraphale said simply because he didn’t know what else to say.

“About last night,” Crowley began, swallowing hard and looking everywhere but Aziraphale’s face, “I’d like to maintain my flawless record and offer you another apology.”

Aziraphale shook his head, both in refusal and to get his thoughts in order.

“No, no, I should have let you know that I wasn’t coming. It was rude of me to leave you in the lurch.”

Crowley gaped at him, actually gaped in disbelief, his jaw slowly working up and down as he tried to form a response.

“Why do you do that?” Crowley asked at last, “Why do you turn down all my apologies like this? Who made you feel like you don’t deserve the slightest of explanations?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be lost for words. He hadn’t realised that’s what he’d been doing, he certainly hadn’t realised that Crowley had been able to pick up on the way he brushed off any suggestion of being owed justification or apology. His teeth clicked shut on the rebuttal he was about to provide, recognising it for the deflection it was.

“Just habit, I suppose,” he said instead.

“If you’d let me apologise properly last night, we might have seen earlier that we weren’t on the same page!” Crowley cried, becoming animated for a moment. He visibly fought to bring himself back under control before continuing. “That’s not- I don’t mean to sound like I’m blaming you. This is on me.”

The hardness that Aziraphale was trying to cultivate cracked a little at that. Crowley looked so dejected as he assumed the fault in their failed… whatever it was they’d had. As hurt and confused as Aziraphale was, he couldn’t deny that he still loved Crowley more than was wise. These things didn’t just go away overnight, no matter how much vodka one kept in the freezer.

“You don’t need to apologise, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, trying to mean it. “We both thought that we understood each other last night, right up until we didn’t. We aren’t looking for the same things in each other. That’s nobody’s fault.”

Crowley sagged at that, like the string holding him up had been cut. Inside Aziraphale’s heart, some instinct screamed to go to him, to take the weight for him. Stubbornly, Aziraphale ignored it and set his feet a little more firmly.

“Nobody’s fault,” Crowley echoed quietly. He seemed to rally himself, dragging a hand down his face and fixing Aziraphale with a gaze that was almost combative. “I think we do want the same thing. I think you’ve made assumptions about the kind of person I am and decided that I couldn’t possibly be interested in anything you have to offer. Am I far off?”

Aziraphale was stunned. He could only blink foolishly at Crowley’s expectant face. 

“I don’t think that’s very fair,” Aziraphale said at last. “If I  _ have  _ made assumptions, can you blame me? It’s not like you were around for me to ask, or actually get to know!” His voice was growing louder, more annoyed as he made his points. “Twice, Crowley, twice you have disappeared on me at the first sign of trouble. I have been such a fool, keeping this space for you in my heart when you never wanted it in the first place!”

“I do, though!” Crowley responded just as passionately, taking half a step forward only to kick the box at his feet. “I’ve been scared and I’ve been stupid, but I have never wanted anything as much as I want to be with you. And, no, I haven’t dealt with things the way I should have, but I’m asking for a chance, Aziraphale. Can’t we at least try to be on the same page?”

An acceptance balanced on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. Crowley was offering exactly what he wanted, openly and honestly, acknowledging the faults that had broken them before. He couldn’t have imagined a better or more fitting offer from Crowley.

“No,” he shook his head, “no, I’m sorry.”

That didn’t feel like the relief he’d expected, it didn’t feel like a weight being lifted. It hurt as he turned Crowley down, barely able to look him in the face. This was the choice he had made, though, this was Aziraphale exercising control over his life and his decisions. It was something he needed to do, even if it hurt. Perhaps, especially because it hurt.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, making the name sound like a plea. He swallowed thickly, the treacle sound of it audible across the shop floor. “I don’t understand.”

Steeling himself, Aziraphale lifted his chin and balled his fists at his sides. He was going to get through this without crying if it killed him.

“I simply don’t belong in your world, Crowley,” he began, his voice wavering with emotion. “I would be a millstone around your neck, a source of stress and worry. Our lives aren’t compatible and I think we’ve seen that now. You would come to resent me for holding you down, or I would break myself trying to keep up. This is-” he paused, searching for the right word and trying not to watch Crowley’s heart shattering in front of him “-safer, this is safer.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant grimace, baring his teeth at Aziraphale’s rejection.

“All of this, everything you think about my life, it isn’t real,” Crowley tried to explain, his hands gesturing vaguely. “I’m just a person; everything else is fluff, temporary, decoration. The person I am wants to be with the person that you are and I’m sure you feel the same. So many people make relationships work based on that alone. All of the red carpets and screaming stadium crowds, they are nothing compared to being loved.”

Pressing his lips together, Aziraphale looked away. His eyes were watering and threatening to spill over with tears; making Crowley suffer was a torture all of its own. Head had to rule over heart, but there was nothing about this that was easy.

“You can’t just turn off who you are, and I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Aziraphale found some steel for his voice, trying to convince them both that he meant what he was saying. “You’re Anthony bloody Crowley of  _ The Demons _ , you can barely walk down the street without someone taking a photograph of you. That’s not something you can change!”

Crowley nodded, biting his lower lip. Aziraphale’s heart tugged painfully at the sight of him, he looked so lost and vulnerable. He watched as Crowley reached up for his sunglasses, snatching his hand away at the last moment and fixing Aziraphale with a pleading, tearful look.

“I know what I am,” he said, quietly enough that Aziraphale had to strain to hear him. “At the end of the day, I’m just a demon, standing in front of an angel, asking him to love me.” Crowley’s mouth pulled into the saddest, most hopeful smile that Aziraphale had ever seen.

Silence lay between them like a heavy blanket, sweltering and suffocating. This wasn’t how Aziraphale wanted to remember Crowley, but he couldn’t waste his last look at the beautiful, strong, talented man in front of him, cataloguing every line of his face, every loose curl of his hair.

Slowly, deliberately, Aziraphale shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor between them and slamming his sunglasses down over his eyes.

“Right, yeah, of course.” He nudged the box at his feet with his toe. “This is for you, if you want it. I won’t bother you again.” With that, Crowley turned and left the shop, taking all of the air with him.

The next thing that Aziraphale was aware of was Newt’s hand on his shoulder and worried repetitions of his name. He was sitting on the bookshop floor with his back against the counter and a cardboard box between his knees.

“Aziraphale?” Newt sounded far away and Aziraphale could hardly find the energy to look up at him. “Aziraphale, what’s wrong?”

Distantly, Aziraphale knew that he would have to respond, to say enough to Newt to dampen the worry before he did anything ridiculous like call an ambulance or tried to administer mouth-to-mouth.

“I’m OK,” he croaked, “it’s OK.” He lifted his head enough to see Newt’s concerned, unconvinced frown.

He was saved from having to put on a more compelling performance by a chirping ring coming from the phone in his pocket. Aziraphale pulled the phone out and looked at the screen enough to see his sister’s face. With a groan, he dropped the phone onto the top of the cardboard box.

Newt’s mouth twisted unpleasantly, he looked from the phone to Aziraphale and back to the phone vibrating across the box. He snatched it up and answered before Aziraphale could protest.

“Hello, Tracy, it’s Newt,” he said quickly as Aziraphale watched him absently. “Yes, he’s right here with me but he doesn’t look well at all.” He paused, obviously listening. “Oh, ah, yeah, that makes sense.” Another pause. “Can you? I think that would be best. Thanks, Tracy.” Newt ended the call and handed the phone back to Aziraphale. “Tea?”

The offer was so familiar and understated that Aziraphale almost wept at the normality of it. He managed a small nod and Newt disappeared with a tight little smile. 

Aziraphale stared at the box between his knees until Newt reappeared with two steaming mugs and lowered himself to the ground beside where Aziraphale was slumped. They sipped in silence, a small mercy that Aziraphale was endlessly grateful for. Language had deserted him, there were no words within his grasp that would do justice to the gnawing ache that was consuming him from the inside out.

He’d been cradling the cold, empty mug for a few minutes, ignoring the uncomfortable way that Newt was fidgeting beside him, when Tracy breezed into the shop and folded her legs to sit across from him, her elbows on the box.

“Oh, thank heavens!” Newt exclaimed as he climbed to his feet. “This is well above my pay grade!”

Aziraphale gave an indescribable little grimace and shrug combination that so perfectly expressed grudging agreement before lapsing back into staring sullenly at his empty mug.

“Wanna tell me what happened, lovey?” Tracy said, reaching across the box to touch Aziraphale’s knuckles.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak but found no words would come. Clicking his teeth shut, Aziraphale shook his head instead, fixing Tracy with a pleading look instead. He needed her to understand that the heavy lifting of the conversation would lay with her. She smiled sympathetically and took a firmer hold of one of his hands. 

“Did you go to the show last night?” she asks. Aziraphale nods. “Did Crowley see you?” Another nod. “Did you talk?”

Aziraphale grimaced and looked away. He couldn’t answer that truthfully with just a nod. 

“Sort of,” he managed at last. “I went backstage after the show.”

Tracy’s eyebrows drifted upwards suggestively, a smirk tugging at one side of her mouth despite the unhappiness of the current situation. Aziraphale supposed that her sisterly need to be a constant source of antagonism was winning out against her other sisterly need to be a source of comfort. 

“You’re telling me that you went backstage after Crowley’s show, you ‘sort of’ talked but clearly not as much as you needed, and yet you’re still sat here being a misery guts this morning?” she asked, unable or unwilling to fight the grin she was wearing.

“Tracy, really!” Aziraphale scolded, exasperated and exhausted. “It wasn’t like that!”

The door of the shop swung open and Aziraphale turned to snap at anyone who thought it was an appropriate time to go book shopping. Maud and Leslie were in the doorway, Leslie reaching over Maud to hold the door open while she wheeled herself in.

“Two more for tea, Newt!” Tracy called into the kitchenette.

“Arthur was right behind us,” Maud added.

“Three more for tea, Newt!” Tracy corrected just as Arthur burst through the door.

“Good work having your breakdown on a Saturday, fella,” Arthur said by way of greeting, “means we can make it a group event.”

Aziraphale felt a chuckle bubbling up in his chest. Something about the bizarre reality of having his shop full of friends, helping him through his heartbreak, joking about how he’d chosen the right day of the week to fall apart, it made a horrid kind of sense.

“Glad I could make it work for you all,” he said wetly, wearing something close to a smile.

“What do we know so far?” Maud asked Tracy, earning an indignant noise of protest from Aziraphale who really did not want to hear Tracy’s version of what he’d said.

“Azzy went to the show, got taken backstage after, and was apparently too preoccupied to do any much-needed talking.” 

Maud and Leslie exchanged a meaningful look. Arthur just looked lost.

“I don’t understand how you go from making out backstage to crying on your bookshop floor less than 12 hours later,” Arthur said, clearly confused as he lowered himself to the floor beside Aziraphale.

“Stop, just stop trying to work it out and casting your damn conjecture!” Aziraphale snapped, fed up of being spoken about as if he wasn’t there. “I went backstage, we talked and he apologised. He asked if there was still hope and I said yes.”

Aziraphale knew that he was missing out details that his friends would practically salivate over, he just didn’t have the strength to go through those emotions again. This was best done quickly, like ripping off a plaster.

“Then what?” Maud prompted gently as Newt appeared with more tea.

“Then he left,” Aziraphale said, accepting his second cup from Newt. “He got in his stupid rock star car and went back to his hotel without me. Asked me to make my own way there to meet him discreetly but wouldn’t even talk to me about going with him, he just walked out.”

“Bastard,” Leslie said with feeling, to a chorus of murmured agreement.

“Did you go?” Arthur asked, earning himself a sharp look from Tracy.

“No,” Aziraphale said before anyone else could answer for him. “I went home and got really, tremendously, magnificently drunk. Which, for the record, I regret.”

“I think you did the right thing,” said Maud, her tone careful.

Aziraphale shook his head slowly, careful not to jostle his brain around too much.

“No, I regret the drinking,” he clarified. “I don’t regret not following Crowley last night.”

The collective release of breath appeared to indicate that his opinion was shared by much of the group. Aziraphale noted the pointed looks being cast between his friends as they all tried to encourage each other to ask the more pressing questions. Tracy’s lips had just parted when Newt, who had been sat at the counter and excluded from the battle of wills, broke the silence on his own.

“So, you went to a gig last night, saw Crowley, snogged like teenagers, and didn’t go home with him. How does that get us here with you hugging a box on the bookshop floor?”

Tracy closed her mouth with a look of impressed surprise and turned her attention back to Aziraphale.

“Crowley came to the shop this morning.”

Everyone absorbed this news in a momentary silence before all finding their voices at once. Aziraphale didn’t have the energy to try and pick out any individual voices or questions and just took a weary swallow of tea whilst waiting for his friends to calm down and decide that they were ready to listen again.

“What did he say?” Leslie asked, finally.

“Oh, all sorts,” Aziraphale tried to deflect, knowing it was a losing battle. “He wanted to apologise for not listening to me last night, said he understood why I hadn’t turned up. Then he sort of accused me of not letting him apologise properly in the first place, but he wasn’t blaming me for what happened.”

“Yes, you do have a habit of cutting people off when they are apologising to you,” Arthur said. His own words seemed to filter into his brain and he went red. “Oh fuck, I said that out loud. Well, I stand by it!”

Aziraphale managed a weak smile to mollify his friend.

“No, you’re quite right. I didn’t let him speak last night and if I had, we might have seen the problem for what it was.” Aziraphale sighed deeply and curled his fingers around his mug. “He knew that, and he asked if we could try to be on the same page, said that he wanted us to try, and that nothing else was as important as being loved. He even admitted that he’d been cowardly about things that had happened between us before. I said no.”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Maud said as she reached out to grip his shoulder.

Tracy scooted around the box to put her arm around his shoulders as he swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly too dry. He drank down the last of his tea and fiddled with the mug, unable to look at any of his friends.

“I told him no, I said I would only become something he resented.” Aziraphale looked up towards the ceiling, blinking back the tears that prickled. “He said that he was ‘just a demon, standing in front of an angel, asking to be loved’. Ridiculous, right?”

His friends all made enthusiastic noises of agreement, protecting what little remained of Aziraphale’s heart.

“Never liked him,” Arthur said, shaking himself as if Crowley was something that could be shrugged off.

“Such tight trousers, as well!” Maud added. “It was a wonder he could walk at all.”

Aziraphale managed to laugh at that.

“Imagine him thinking he could be good enough for my big brother?” Tracy said, squeezing Aziraphale again.

“So, what’s in the box?” Newt asked, devoid of subtlety.

“Oh, er, yes,” Aziraphale took his mug off the top and folded open the flaps. “He gave me this. It’s, uh. It’s the Crowley family tartan. I only had a quick look but I think it’s a full kilt and belted plaid.”

Tracy leaned forward to rummage through the box.

“This is the whole kit, isn’t it? That’s not cheap.” She caught herself too late. “I mean, for any of us, it’s pretty extravagant. Probably nothing for him, though.”

“Aziraphale?” Newt began.

“No.”

“But didn’t-”

“Newt, I know!” Aziraphale snapped as he turned to look at Newt. “I don’t need to hear it right now!”

“Hear what?” Leslie asked, moving closer as Aziraphale grew more agitated.

With a groan, Aziraphale leaned forward and stuck his head into the box.

“Seal me in, I’m going to live in here now.”

With Tracy petting the back of his head, Aziraphale tried to ride out his shame by hiding in the box of gorgeous tartan. It wasn’t his best plan as, clearly, attention turned to Newt and he filled in what Aziraphale had been trying to avoid thinking about.

“Aziraphale talks about tartan a lot, you know?” Newt began nervously. “He’s told me several times that giving someone your clan tartan is like making them a part of your family, saying you claim this person as yours. I think Crowley knew exactly what this gift would mean.”

“Oh,” said Maud.

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale from inside the box. Finally, he dragged himself out. “I did do the right thing, didn’t I?”

“Oh yes,” said Arthur.

“Absolutely,” said Maud.

“100%,” said Leslie.

“Definitely,” said Tracy.

The shop door slammed open, startling the group and grabbing their collective attention.

“Aziraphale! Ye gottae try this,” Shadwell said, walking in and staring down at a mug in his hands. “We’re outta milk so I used th’ condensed stuff in me tea and I reckon I’m onta somethin’.” He looked up and took in the group. “Oh, ye tellin’ ‘em all abou’ th’ song Crowley wrote ye?”

Aziraphale groaned at the memory.

“He wrote you a song?” Tracy asked, near hysterical.

Maud turned to face Shadwell and tried to communicate that he should play along with what she was about to say.

“Actually, Aziraphale was telling us about how Crowley came by the shop this morning and he sent him away. We all think he’s done a good, brave thing.”

“Ye great eedjit!” Shadwell exclaimed, almost dropping his mug. “Wotcha do tha’ fer?”

Aziraphale looked about at his friends’ tense faces, reading plainly what they all were trying very hard not to say.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, haven’t I?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“You have, a bit,” Tracy said gently as everyone else nodded.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I promise the happy ending is close!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story. The end is in sight!
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all of you who have kept me going with your comments and support. With a special dedication to Alicia who works with Christi at Starbucks. You know who you are ;)
> 
> My endless thanks to NarumiKaiko for her incredible beta work, as always. You have no idea how much she improves this story.
> 
> There is smut in this chapter. If you don't fancy it, just stop reading when they move to the bedroom.
> 
> See you on the other side, folks!

“The Ritz, London, how may I be of assistance?” 

This time, Aziraphale was prepared. 

“Hello, I’m hoping to speak with a guest staying with you under the name of Saul Hudson.” 

The clicking of a keyboard could be heard through the phone before the man spoke again.

“I’m afraid we don’t have a guest staying under that name.”

“You don’t?” Aziraphale asked, confused. “Are you sure? Sorry, of course you are. Did he already check out or…?” Aziraphale trailed off, unsure what other explanation there might be for Crowley being out of reach.

The man at the other end of the phone made an uncomfortable noise in his throat.

“A guest of that name did check out a short while ago,” he admitted, clearly torn. “I believe you may find him at the Savoy giving a press conference.”

If Aziraphale had been within reach, he would have kissed the man right on the mouth. Instead, he satisfied himself with punching the air in victory.

“Thank you so much!” he gushed down the phone. “You are a saint amongst men, thank you!” Aziraphale ended the call and dragged himself up off the floor, watched by six expectant faces. “He’s at the Savoy for a press conference. I have to get there immediately or I’ll have missed my chance forever.”

“I’ll drive you, the car is just outside,” Leslie volunteered, already heading out of the door. “Blue badge parking saves the day!”

“Ye goin’ dressed like tha’?” Shadwell asked, his eyebrows creeping upwards.

Aziraphale looked down at himself, at the worn waistcoat and threadbare trousers, the comfort of his old favourites now looking slobbish and lazy.

“Oh, no. I need to change!”

“Wear the kilt!” Tracy yelled, far louder than was necessary.

“No time!” countered Maud, moving towards the door. “The car is just outside, we’ve got to go!”

Before he could question her use of the word “we”, Aziraphale was bundled out of the shop by Tracy and Arthur. Newt called after them that the shop would be fine and not to worry. Despite this and the myriad of other concerns in his thoughts, Aziraphale managed to find a portion of his mind to dedicate to worrying; the last time Newt had been left alone for longer than an hour, Aziraphale had spent a significant amount of time refunding transactions on credit cards that had never even been in the country, let alone the shop. The nice lady at Mastercard had laughed about it in the end, but there had been some pretty serious threats of legal action before they got to that point.

Leslie had pulled up by the kerb outside and was waving them all into the car. Arthur, Tracy, and Shadwell climbed into the back seat as Aziraphale got in the front. Maud waved and blew a kiss as the doors slammed closed. Looking at everyone in the car, Leslie’s usually cheerful face underwent a transformation.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he hissed. “We’re not leaving Maud behind!”

He leapt out from behind the wheel, ran around to the passenger side, and pulled open the back door beside Shadwell. Without question, Shadwell slid out and went to open the boot. As Leslie lifted Maud into Shadwell’s vacated seat, Shadwell folded her chair and stowed it carefully before bending himself around it and closing the boot on himself. 

“All in?” Leslie called once he was back in the driving seat.

A chorus of excited cries sounded out only to immediately turn to yelps of surprise as Leslie pulled out into the road and slammed down the accelerator.

A second later, the reality of London traffic caused Leslie to brake sharply or run into the back of a large, red bus. Aziraphale’s heart was pounding from the adrenaline, the sound of rushing blood in his ear was drowning out every other noise, and he was certain that his body would just give out as soon as he had a moment to be calm.

Just as he was about to second guess this madcap dash to try and win back the man he loved, Tracy leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be alright, Azzy,” she said softly, “you’ll see.”

Whilst her words did little to relax him, Aziraphale did find himself fortified by her faith. This was the right thing to do, he wasn’t out of the race yet and his friends were with him. He would be OK.

Leslie took them through Piccadilly and down Haymarket, a route which made Arthur object.

“Haymarket? Not down towards Charing Cross?” he asked. Aziraphale could almost laugh at the mundanity of it.

“Yes, Haymarket. It’s faster at this time of day,” Leslie answered without taking his eyes off the road.

“But you’ll be on the wrong side of the Strand,” Arthur said, persisting.

Leslie huffed as he gracefully avoided a deliveroo bike.

“Which of us drives around London for a living, Arthur?” he asked.

“Right, yes,” Arthur mumbled. “Sorry, old chap.”

“James Bond never has to deal with this,” Leslie muttered under his breath. 

Aziraphale almost burst with love for his friends. In the midst of a frankly bananas chase through central London, they still managed to be sweet and petty and daft all at once.

The side road leading to the Savoy came into sight, sure enough, right across the road. Aziraphale prepared to jump out when Leslie stopped, not expecting him to swing the car around in an illegal right turn and head down to the hotel entrance itself. He pulled over, slapped the blue badge on top of the dashboard, and killed the engine before Aziraphale found the momentum to launch himself from the car. As he sprinted to the revolving doors, skirting the fountain, Aziraphale could hear the commotion of five adults trying to exit the same car at once.

Briefly slowed by the doors, Aziraphale trotted over the chequered floor to the desk, drawing the barely interested gaze of the smartly uniformed concierge.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said warmly, wearing his most winning smile, “I’m late for a press conference. Could you possibly direct me?”

The concierge smiled and clasped his hands on the desk.

“Of course, sir. Do you have your press credentials?”

Aziraphale patted his pockets performatively, absently looking for something he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Not as such, no,” he admitted, his mind reeling at the setback. He grasped for some excuse, anything he could say to convince this man to risk his job for Aziraphale’s chance at happiness. He opened his mouth just as a loud clatter drew all attention to the doors.

Maud’s chair was stuck in the revolving door. She shoved at the door with one hand and forced her chair forward with the other, coming free with a crunch that made Aziraphale worry that he was going to have to fund repairs for the door.

“That man is with me!” Maud called out before Aziraphale could gather his thoughts.

In seconds, she was at the concierge desk and glaring upwards with a kind of righteous fury that Aziraphale had rarely seen in her.

“Very good, madam,” the concierge answered smoothly, “and you are?”

Maud slid her business card onto the desk.

“An extremely dedicated barrister with a vested interest in holding companies accountable for how they treat their disabled customers.” Maud sounded beyond cool. When her eyes flicked meaningfully towards the door that had impeded her entry, even Aziraphale felt his insides drop.

The concierge peered down at Maud’s card, his gaze rising to her face briefly. Aziraphale noticed, with some satisfaction, the way that the colour drained from the man’s cheeks.

“I see,” he said, picking up the card. “You want the Abraham Lincoln room, on the lower level. The elevators are just to the right.” He indicated the direction automatically, visibly uncomfortable with giving the information.

“Thank you,” Maud said sharply.

Aziraphale snatched the card back from the concierge and followed Maud to the elevators. Leslie, Tracy, and Arthur joined them just before the doors opened, all looking rather pink in the cheeks and wild about the eyes.

“Where’s Shadwell?” Aziraphale asked, craning his neck to see across the lobby.

“Outside,” Tracy answered, shoving Aziraphale into the lift. “One of the doormen tried to get Leslie to move the car and Shadwell just put his arm around his shoulders, turned him away, and gave him a pamphlet about the dangers of witchcraft in the modern age. We left them debating the classification of TV psychics.”

Disbelieving, Aziraphale shook his head slowly. What had he ever done to deserve friends like these? He loved them all so very much, even Shadwell.

The doors opened onto an elegant hallway, entirely deserted and eerily quiet. A brass sign on the wall opposite the elevator directed them towards the Abraham Lincoln and Manhattan rooms. Oddly afraid of breaking the silence, Aziraphale turned in the direction of the Abraham Lincoln room and walked in a manner that was entirely at odds with the anticipation that fizzed in his veins. Maud raced past him, followed by Leslie, coming to a hard stop by a pair of white doors.

Tracy slung an arm over his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her unspoken support buoying him through the tumult of emotions that threatened to swamp him.

Arthur reached for the door handle, offering Aziraphale a tight smile. The sound of voices could be heard on the other side of the door, too many to be understood and then there was quiet. A moment later, Crowley’s voice filled the air, the words indistinct but unmistakably him.

The next time that the hubbub rose, Arthur pulled open the door. Before Aziraphale could even consider not walking through, Leslie and Tracy shunted him ahead of them, Maud at their heels, Arthur bringing up the rear. They knew him too well to leave him unattended at this vital juncture.

A few of the journalists nearest the door turned to stare for a moment, but the need to ask their questions was more pressing than noticing any latecomers. Aziraphale took a moment to take in the fullness of the press conference, recognising that if he was lucky, this might be his last chance to do so as an outside observer.

The room was a bright, largely square space, decorated in Edwardian style. Elegant columns stretched up above the clamouring journalists who stood in a tight knot, all leaning towards the front of the room. A small dais with a long table took up most of one wall. Two figures sat at the table, looking out over the room. One was the unpleasant man that Aziraphale vaguely remembered from the day he had accidentally interviewed Crowley’s band mates, the other was a dark slouch of misery in sunglasses. 

Crowley looked so utterly dejected that Aziraphale forgot how to breathe for a moment. He had done that. He had affected Crowley so thoroughly that he couldn’t even put on his act for the press. Aziraphale realised what a mistake he was making, forcing a public confrontation with Crowley where he would either have to reject Aziraphale in front of the press or reveal the nature of their relationship. It wouldn’t be right. 

He began to turn back towards the door as the unpleasant man selected a journalist to ask the next question. Maud’s hand found his and put it firmly on the back of her wheelchair before taking advantage of the lull to meander her way into the crowd. Aziraphale saw her threaten more than a few pairs of expensive shoes with her wheels.

“Hi, Kerrang magazine,” a journalist began, “can we expect a tour supporting the new album?”

Aziraphale glanced up to see Crowley shoot a look at the grubby blond man sitting beside him. There was an almost imperceptible shake of his head before he folded back into himself.

“I’ll be answering on Crowley’s behalf there,” said the unpleasant man, his name still escaping Aziraphale’s memory. “At this time, there is no plan to tour the acoustic album. Crowley intends to spend some time out of the public eye and is considering the album something of a farewell gift before his absence.”

The room erupted into cries of “Crowley!” and “Hastur!” as every journalist tried to get clarification on the meaning of farewell. Hastur, Aziraphale thought numbly, that’s his name.

“What are you waiting for?” Maud hissed at him, having now got them to a good central location.

“I can’t do this,” Aziraphale said, bending down to be heard over the cacophony. “It’s too public, I’ll be pushing him into an impossible situation.”

Annoyance flashed across Maud’s usually kind face as she took Aziraphale’s hand from the back of her chair and squeezed it.

“Fuck off with that, Aziraphale. You’re good with words, you can find a way to ask him without making it a disaster or a spectacle, I know you can.” The ferocity of her tone shook him back into himself. 

He glanced back towards the door to where he could just see Tracy grinning at him. She flashed a double thumbs up and his confidence flickered back to life.

“Thank you,” he said, both for Maud to hear and Tracy to see. He stood up straight and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, putting himself to rights.

“No, it’s not a retirement,” Hastur was saying, looking personally aggrieved about having to speak to the press. “Crowley is simply taking some time to himself for personal reasons.  _ The Demons  _ are not breaking up, as those of you present last night can attest.”

Aziraphale raised his hand like a shot, almost knocking a notepad out of the hand of the woman next to him. He’d have apologised if he’d noticed. All of his attention was focused on the heartbroken lump of rock star in front of him.

“Crowley!” he called, trying to be heard over the other voices yelling his name.

Crowley lifted his head a fraction, looking out over the top of his sunglasses before slumping back down and pushing the sunglasses back up his face; he hadn’t seen Aziraphale.

“You, blond guy,” Hastur pointed in Aziraphale’s direction. Uncertain that he had been picked so soon, Aziraphale looked over his shoulder before pointing at himself. “Yeah, you. Go ahead,” Hastur confirmed.

“Hello, um, Velocipede Monthly,” Aziraphale said, nervously. A small ripple of laughter crossed the room but he was only paying attention to Crowley. His head was slowly lifting from where it rested on his chest and Aziraphale scrambled for his next words, knowing they would make or break him. “The new song you played last night seemed especially personal, even romantic, in nature. Is there someone special in your life at present?”

Crowley looked at him, looked right at him so clearly that the sunglasses might as well have not been there. He looked angry, Aziraphale realised, feeling sick. Hastur leaned forward to answer but Crowley put out a hand to stop him. 

“It’s OK,” he said quietly, still within range of the microphone in front of him and never taking his eyes off Aziraphale, “I’ll answer this one.” He took a swallow of water before speaking again, his right hand flexing and clenching in a way that made Aziraphale’s stomach fall further. “I had thought that I had something with someone very special,” he paused to breathe deeply and Aziraphale recognised that what he had read as anger was simply fear. “It was made clear that I had been mistaken.”

Crowley’s entire body language had changed as he spoke, Aziraphale had watched so closely as he moved from being small and closed off to cautiously open. He leaned his elbows on the table, sitting straighter and inclined slightly towards where Aziraphale stood. Aziraphale was certain that, had he been able to see Crowley’s eyes, they would have been pleading. He steeled himself and thrust his hand up into the air again.

“Go on,” Crowley said, cutting off Hastur before he could pick another journalist. “Ask one more.”

Aziraphale blinked, willing his tears away as best he could. This was his moment and he had to make it count.

“What if he were to reconsider? Get down on his knees to apologise and beg forgiveness?” Aziraphale spoke slowly, carefully watching Crowley’s face for any sign of panic or upset as he peeled back the veneer of deniability in front of the assembled press. “What if... he realised that he had made rather a mess of the whole thing and what he had really meant to say was yes?”

Crowley nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line and his knuckles white where his hands had bunched into tight fists. Aziraphale watched him strain to hold himself together, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed convulsively, the slight twist of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Hope blossomed gloriously bright in Aziraphale’s chest.

“I would be prepared to hear him out.”

Aziraphale felt his face break into a dopey grin at the same moment that he heard a delighted squeal from the direction of his sister. Crowley glanced towards the door and laughed.

The next few seconds seemed to stretch out into an eternity. People around Aziraphale appeared to come to the dawning realisation that he wasn’t merely a journalist for the most niche publication all at once. Cameras and phones started flashing in his face but all he could see was Crowley, smiling at him. Questions were being yelled at him and Crowley in equal measure, demanding to know more of the story. 

Crowley leaned over to Hastur and whispered something that earned him an exaggerated eye-roll and huff. Aziraphale could only watch, oblivious to almost everything around him. Eventually, Maud yanked on his arm hard enough to get his attention.

“Don’t just stand here! You’ve got to go talk to him now!” Maud shoved him forwards, breaking him out of the inertia that had gripped him.

“Thank you all for attending, we’re done for today,” Hastur announced into his microphone, cutting across the deafening array of voices. “Go away.”

Aziraphale pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring every hand that caught at him and every question yelled his way, moving towards Crowley like he was wading through a river. He felt as though his heart was dragging him forwards, as if a connection between his heart and Crowley’s was being shortened and forcing them together.

Despite being dismissed, no one was leaving. No journalist worth their salt was going to walk out on the story unfolding in front of them. It was the only thing keeping Aziraphale from climbing the dais or sinking to his knees. Hastur had moved away to speak to a hotel employee, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale to gaze stupidly at each other across the short distance still between them.

As if they had been conjured from thin air, uniformed hotel staff appeared around the room and began to usher the assembled journalists out of the doors. Aziraphale spared a glance to find that Maud was safely back with Leslie, Arthur, and Tracy. Arthur waved and tried to yell something that was lost in the racket. Tracy held up her phone meaningfully, just managing to make her point before being swept out of the room in a tide of reluctant reporters.

Aziraphale fished his phone out of his pocket to see a message from her.

[Tracy 11:37] _  
Proud of you! We’ll go make sure Newt doesn’t  
burn the shop down or anything! Good luck! _

[11:38] _  
Thanks x _

One word was all he could manage in response, hating every second that he wasn’t focused solely on Crowley. Everything was in flux, the wrong word, the wrong look, the wrong reaction could bring everything crashing down again. 

Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley standing, deep in conversation with Hastur and a woman in the uniform of the hotel. The last few more stubborn journalists were being hurried out, still snapping photographs of the mostly empty room. Aziraphale felt suspended between worlds, in a limbo that could tip either way.

As the woman spoke animatedly, showing Crowley a keycard, Hastur made a disgusted noise and stepped away from the conversation on the dais; Aziraphale had less than a second to worry before Crowley laughed and smacked Hastur on the back, earning a laugh in return. The three disappeared behind a partition, leaving Aziraphale alone in the large room with just his thoughts and fears. 

The familiar claws of panic began to sink into Aziraphale’s throat almost as soon as Crowley was out of sight. It couldn’t be more than twenty seconds before a side door opened and Crowley stuck his head through.

“C’mon Aziraphale, I’ve got us somewhere to talk.”

Not even bothering to hide the sigh or relief at the sight of him, Aziraphale crossed the room to Crowley.

“Thought you’d abandoned me for a moment, there,” he admitted with a chuckle, feeling the warmth flooding his cheeks as he blushed.

“Never, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, his tone deadly serious. “Never again, I promise you that right now.”

How could Aziraphale do anything but melt at that? He could see his own soppy expression mirrored in Crowley’s sunglasses. He let Crowley take his hand and lead him through the door into a different hallway. The woman from the hotel was waiting for them but Hastur was nowhere in sight. She led them to a service elevator and summoned it with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry about this, we don’t usually have to use the service lifts for guests,” she explained just before the doors opened.

“It’s really alright,” Crowley assured her, smiling in his disarming way and setting fireworks off in Aziraphale’s heart. “I’ve probably been in more of these than most hotel staff!”

The woman laughed warmly and selected a floor. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand as if to remind him that he was still holding it. Aziraphale liked that, liked that he was allowed this much before they’d even had a chance to talk. He knew that what was coming would be difficult and, perhaps, even painful, but Crowley was holding his hand right now and what could matter more than that?

The lift doors opened and the woman ducked out to check the hallway before letting them leave, ushering them along the hallway through a door that she opened with a key card from within her jacket. Aziraphale was about to comment on how he would never be able to find his way out again when she stopped them in front of a double door. She unlocked the door before handing the key to Crowley.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” she said, holding the door open. “The suite is yours for as long as you need it. If you require anything at all, please just call and it will be our pleasure to assist.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, leaning against the door and still holding Aziraphale’s hand. “I really appreciate the hospitality.”

Aziraphale looked away, trying to take in the room he now found himself occupying. Beyond the small foyer, he could see a formal seating area with doorways off to either side. A large window gave an unimpeded view of the Thames and left Aziraphale feeling exposed.

Hearing the door close, Aziraphale turned back to Crowley and found that they were now alone. A silence that was more awkward than he liked settled between them as Aziraphale struggled to find the words he needed.

Crowley dropped his hand at last and Aziraphale tried not to show his disappointment or the way his fingers ached to be laced with Crowley’s as soon as they were parted. He must have done a poor job of it as Crowley pouted in mock sympathy before leaning in to cup Aziraphale’s cheek and press a single chaste kiss to his lips.

“Just one, to make sure you’re real,” Crowley said, sounding far more breathless than the kiss warranted. “I’m not making the same mistakes as last night.”

Aziraphale nodded, bit his bottom lip, nodded again, and found his voice.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Crowley said, far softer than Aziraphale deserved. “I am too, for what it’s worth.”

Aziraphale nodded sadly, knowing they had hurt each other a great deal in a short amount of time. He let Crowley lead him deeper into the suite, past the stuffy armchairs and to a large corner sofa in a dark honey coloured leather.

“Do you want a drink?” Crowley asked, moving into the kitchenette as Aziraphale settled on the sofa. 

“Oh, a cup of tea would be lovely,” Aziraphale said. He paused for a moment and then began to stand. “I should be doing that, or helping at least.”

Crowley waved him away with a scoff.

“You’ve made me so many cups of tea, served me wine, bought me dinner, cooked me dinner, I think it’s time I started pulling my weight.” 

Aziraphale found that he really couldn’t argue with that, so he sat back and watched Crowley hunt around for the kettle, mugs, teabags, and milk. He could recognise the way that Crowley was trying to expel his nervous energy, buying a little time before the big showdown. Aziraphale had nothing to do except watch and fidget with the buttons on his waistcoat.

When Crowley finally set the mugs down on the coffee table and sat beside Aziraphale on the sofa, Aziraphale felt about ready to vibrate right out of his skin.

“How do you want to do this?” Crowley asked, his hands splayed on his thighs in an attempt to keep them from restless movement. Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“I think, first things first and all that, I should say something I’ve wanted to say for a while,” Aziraphale said, hearing his own hesitancy. Crowley winced a little and it tore at Aziraphale’s heart. “Crowley, I love you. I am hopelessly in love with you and have been for far longer than you could know.”

Crowley sniffed and finally reached up to take off his sunglasses, slinging them carelessly onto the table.

“I love you,” he said, quiet but insistent. “I meant what I said last night, I’m completely gone on you. Being away from you these past ten months has been hell.”

Aziraphale had to look away then, he needed to take a moment to gather himself rather than blurt out the first thing on his tongue.

“It has been,” he agreed carefully, “I missed you dreadfully.”

Crowley inched closer, reducing the ocean of space that existed between them. 

“I’m sorry.” Crowley looked miserable and Aziraphale could hardly stand it. “I was so afraid of getting you tangled in my mess of a life that I didn’t even want to consider your opinion. I thought I was doing the right thing by you but really I was just making decisions for us both. And it’s not like you weren’t telling me that all along, I just didn’t want to hear it.”

Aziraphale put his hand down on the sofa between them, a silent offer of increased closeness.

“I wasn’t blameless there,” he admitted. “I let my insecurities colour my opinions about your actions. When I should have been firmly stating my boundaries, I was too afraid of losing a single second of your attention. I was so convinced that you would tire of me at any moment that I ignored my own comfort for too long.”

Crowley glanced down at Aziraphale’s hand before gently covering it with his own.

“Which I should have realised, it isn’t like this sort of thing is new to me.” Crowley sighed, suddenly looking far more tired than he had a moment before. “I really want to make this work, Aziraphale. I want to share a life with you and I know how foolish it is to say that. I know that we really haven’t spent that much time together, but things just feel right when I’m with you.”

“If that’s foolish, then we’re fools together,” Aziraphale said softly. He turned his hand so that they were palm to palm. Crowley laced their fingers together. “I want this, I just have to be an equal partner with you, not someone you feel you have to look after or protect.”

Crowley grimaced at that, expressing doubt and fear. Aziraphale responded by lifting Crowley’s hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m going to want to protect you, I have the experience here,” Crowley said at last. “But, I think the difference is that I don’t  _ have _ to protect you and I can see that now. You’ve held your own and had a taste of what the vultures can be like.”

Aziraphale nodded, remembering how he had been left to fend for himself against a not-insignificant number of journalists and paparazzi.

“I did notice, by the way,” Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts, “that you didn’t sell the story or even so much as give a comment, I mean. There aren’t many people who would do the same.”

“Oh, Crowley, I was already in love with you. I wasn’t about to betray your trust, even if I never saw you again.” It felt safe to admit that now, now that Crowley was holding his hand and looking at him with tired, earnest eyes. “I’m quite happy to be guided by you in these matters, but I can’t have you make decisions for me again. That’s my condition, such as it is.”

For a moment, Aziraphale really feared that Crowley might cry. His bottom lip trembled as he visibly struggled to keep himself under control. Aziraphale wanted to gather him into his lap, to hold him close until he felt secure again. As soon as Crowley managed to agree to Aziraphale’s request, Aziraphale would give in to the urge, but not a moment before.

“Can I set a condition too?” Crowley asked, breaking Aziraphale’s heart with his uncertainty.

“Of course you can, you need to establish your boundaries as well.”

“I need you to tell me when I’m making you feel insecure, or when I’m trying to make decisions for you,” Crowley says. He pauses to think. “And I need you to let me apologise in full when I fuck up, because I  _ am  _ going to fuck up, I know it.”

“Of course you are!” Aziraphale laughed. Crowley’s offended face only made him laugh harder. “We both are! That’s life, Crowley, but it’s how we move forward from the fuck ups that will define us. That’s what matters.”

“Like this?” Crowley asked carefully, gesturing to them both and squeezing Aziraphale’s hand.

“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale confirmed, “just like this.”

In the brief silence that followed, Aziraphale leaned forward to pick up his tea. It was practically perfect and Aziraphale was more relieved than he wanted to admit. Some ridiculous part of his mind had worried that he’d committed himself to a future with a man who couldn’t make tea.

“This was a pretty big fuck up,” Crowley said, kicking off his boots and tucking his feet up under himself until he was leaning into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “And a pretty big gesture from you.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, wriggling his hand free of Crowley’s so he could wrap an arm around his shoulders, “that’s only fair seeing as you made the last grand gesture.”

Crowley snorted a laugh, burying his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Is that what I did? I was so tired and upset that I could barely think. I can’t remember ever crashing worse after a show than I did last night. I just fell into an emotional black hole once I realised that you weren’t coming and then I realised  _ why  _ you weren’t coming and, well, that didn’t exactly make things better.” Crowley laughed again, somewhat bitterly this time. “I accept your condition, Aziraphale, for what it’s worth. Thank you for coming back for me.”

Aziraphale twisted to face Crowley and kissed him insistently. As Crowley pressed forward, Aziraphale slipped his arm around Crowley’s waist and drew him closer until Crowley was climbing into Aziraphale’s lap, cradling his face and kissing him like his life depended on it.

“I’m sorry it had to be so public,” Aziraphale said when they eventually broke for air. “I didn’t know how else I’d ever get close to you again. I had to try.”

“No, no,” Crowley insisted, kissing Aziraphale’s cheeks between words, “it was perfect, don’t apologise. Properly romantic gesture, that. And you still gave me an out, don’t think I didn’t notice the way you did that.”

Aziraphale stammered wordlessly, unaccustomed as he was to having his care recognised. Crowley only laughed and kissed a trail down Aziraphale’s neck, his fingers beginning to fiddle with the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. He wanted Crowley to be close, but things were starting to heat up faster than Aziraphale had anticipated. He took hold of Crowley’s hips and pushed him back a little.

“Crowley, wait,” he said, trying to ignore the way his hands fit so neatly around Crowley’s hips. “Is this really what you want to do?”

Crowley pulled away, his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders as he searched Aziraphale’s eyes for something.

“Do you not want to?”

Aziraphale felt him start to shift away and tightened his grip, holding Crowley in place enough to show that he was certainly not unwilling.

“I do, I really do, but only if we’ve truly cleared the air.” He tried to express himself plainly but Crowley looked hurt and he hated being the cause for that.

“We have, I’ve never seen clearer air,” Crowley said, trying to smile. “I’d rather die than rush you, I promise that this is coming from the right place.”

Aziraphale needed a moment to think, just to search his heart and check that all the wounds had been bandaged. They couldn’t heal everything in one conversation, no matter how open and earnest, but there was nothing left unspoken, they had each faced the hurt they’d caused and acknowledged their faults. It was time to start moving forward.

Aziraphale found that he could only smile at Crowley in answer.

“Please,” Crowley murmured, “please, let me have this.” He slid his hands up Aziraphale’s neck and into his hair, sending a shiver of delight down his spine. Crowley bent in to kiss him again. “I love you, please, please, don’t take this from me again, please. I need this, I need to be close to you, to feel safe.”

Crowley sounded so desperately sad as he fell into repeating his pleas under his breath whilst kissing Aziraphale’s throat, jaw, and lips.

Aziraphale didn’t have it in him to deny Crowley anything, not when he asked so sweetly and needfully.

“Here?” he asked, burying kisses in Crowley’s hair. “We can be back at my place in under twenty minutes.”

“Here,” Crowley insisted, moving back to straddle Aziraphale’s thighs properly. “Please, please don’t make me wait for you. I can’t lose you again, please.”

Aziraphale kissed him, silencing any further desperate words by licking Crowley’s bottom lip and sliding his tongue past Crowley’s teeth. It didn’t feel too fast, all he wanted was to feel Crowley in his arms and make up for lost time.

They’d waited long enough, Aziraphale decided as he tasted Crowley’s mouth and found him sweet, they’d talked and listened and apologised and all Aziraphale wanted now was to make good on what had been lost months before. 

His hands reached down to grip under Crowley’s thighs, getting a solid hold before standing up from the sofa. Crowley’s legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist immediately and his arms looped around Aziraphale’s neck.

“I assume that use of the bedroom is acceptable?” Aziraphale asked, not entirely sure what Crowley had negotiated with the hotel.

“Yes, Aziraphale, the whole suite is ours,  _ fuck _ ,” he said the last as Aziraphale hefted him up. “How are you so strong?”

“Crowley, you weigh less than some of the books I stock, I swear!” Aziraphale laughed and tossed Crowley onto the bed.

“That’s such a turn on, you have no idea,” Crowley purred from the bed. “Now come here and fuck me, before I lose my mind.”

Aziraphale kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, crawling over Crowley’s body until he could reach his lips again. He felt Crowley’s erection pressing against his thigh, hot and urgent, turning the fire of his own arousal into a blazing inferno as a fleeting thought almost escaped his notice. Luckily, or not, he caught it and managed to push down the urgency of his own need.

“My love, I will do all manner of things with you, to you, for you, in the fullness of time. But I can’t fuck you right now.”

Crowley pouted. “You practically promised!”

“That was almost a year ago!” Aziraphale laughed, kissing the pout off Crowley’s face. “As lovely as this suite is, I can’t imagine that they have condoms or lube tucked beside the complimentary bar of soap.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide with realisation. For a moment, Aziraphale feared that Crowley would try to convince him that they didn’t need such things. He didn’t expect for Crowley to slither out from under him and across the bed.

“Fuck that,” he said with feeling, and picked up the phone from the bedside table. “Hello? Yes, this is Anthony Crowley. We’re going to be staying the night. Can you have some condoms and lube sent up as soon as possible?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can’t be serious!”

Crowley gave a confused look and covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“What? It’s the quickest way,” he said as if he was doing something completely ordinary. “Yes, water-based, please,” he said into the phone before turning back to Aziraphale. “Do you want anything to eat? Or for dinner later?”

“Crowley, I really can’t-” Crowley cut him off with an amused tut and a look of such fondness that Aziraphale forgot he was upset for a moment.

“Could you have a sushi platter for two sent up around 7? Yes? That’s perfect. Yes, 9am sounds good. Thank you very much.” Crowley hung up the phone and gave the widest grin that Aziraphale had ever seen on another person. “Sorted!”

“I can not  _ believe _ you just called room service for condoms!” Aziraphale exclaimed, feeling a touch out of his depth.

“Not room service, my love, the butler.”

“Butler?!” Aziraphale spat. “That doesn’t make it any better!”

“Doesn’t it?” Crowley softened his words with a kiss and Aziraphale remembered why they were even in the bedroom in the first place. He allowed his temper to cool back into passion. “Trust me, that’s not even going to register on his top twenty weird requests. And I am not prepared to wait a moment longer than I have to.”

Aziraphale was torn between embarrassed laughter, mortification, and barely controlled lust. Crowley  _ wanted _ him, wanted him more than Aziraphale could have prepared for. The sheer extravagance of summoning a butler for sexual paraphernalia was utterly beyond his scope of understanding. Settling for an uncomfortable chuckle, Aziraphale pushed himself up until he was sitting on the bed and leaning against the headboard. Crowley leaned across to kiss him again.

“I swear I’m not usually this showy,” Crowley insisted in a low voice, “but if I can’t spoil you at least a little today, then what’s the point of all my money and fame? All I want is to make you happy, Aziraphale.”

“You do,” Aziraphale responded, easily falling into kissing Crowley’s willing mouth. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been.”

A knock at the door put a halt to any further exchanges of increasingly sappy sentiments as Crowley scrunched his nose in mock irritation and slipped off the bed. Aziraphale admired the way he walked from the room, the sensual swing of his hips as he sauntered to the door. Aziraphale could almost imagine that Crowley had answered the door to condom bearing butlers so many times that it was as casual as fetching in the papers.

That thought wasn’t a comfortable one, a brief stab of anguish twisting in Aziraphale’s gut before he could dismiss the worry. Even if Crowley had taken hundreds of lovers, he was still here with Aziraphale, choosing Aziraphale. That had to be what mattered, that and nothing else.

A moment later Crowley reappeared with a ridiculous grin and a neat, white paper bag in his hand. He tossed it to Aziraphale before leaping back onto the bed.

Turning the bag over in his hands, Aziraphale found that it had been sealed with a Savoy branded sticker. It was so bizarrely formal, breaking this seal to get at what he needed to fuck Crowley. He couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

“He had it on a silver tray as well, you know,” Crowley said, correctly guessing the source of Aziraphale’s amusement.

“He did not!” Aziraphale gasped as he tipped out the contents.

“On my life,” Crowley said, holding one hand over his heart. “Silver tray, white gloves. No cloche though.” He shook his head as if that was a disappointment and Aziraphale loved him all the more.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, looking at the veritable mountain of condoms that had appeared on the bed. “Good lord, what sort of bacchanalian extravagance do they think you’re hosting up here?”

Crowley snorted and ran his fingers through the foil packets like a pirate admiring a haul of gold coins.

“They took one look at you and knew that I wasn’t ever going to be able to get enough,” Crowley purred, getting Aziraphale’s thought sharply back on track.

Rather than answering with words, Aziraphale leaned forward to kiss Crowley with all of the heat he’d been feeling since drawing Crowley into his lap on the sofa. Blessedly, Crowley melted into the kiss, becoming pliant and clingy, letting Aziraphale control the intensity.

His fingers slid up under Crowley’s jacket and then down his arms, taking the jacket with them. Crowley shrugged it the last few inches and tossed it off the bed, his fingers immediately busying themselves with Aziraphale’s waistcoat buttons the moment they were free.

They tangled with each other urgently, kissing only to break away when a shirt had to be lifted or a button needed extra attention. They were both down to their underwear before Crowley pulled away, their legs entwined enough that Aziraphale didn’t worry much at the sudden distance between their lips.

“I love you,” said Crowley, lessening Aziraphale’s worry even further. “I know I’ve been pushing for you to fuck me, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.” He looked down, a little awkwardly. “I remember we had a lot of fun without penetration before.”

Aziraphale felt his face go soft in adoration and knew that his expression could rival even the sweetest of kittens.

“Of course I want to, my love, my Crowley,” he said as he pressed his hips forward, rubbing his hard cock against Crowley’s thigh. “Oh, but only if  _ you _ want to, that is. I won’t be upset if you change your mind,” he hastened to add.

Crowley moved closer, laughing into a kiss.

“I want you to fuck me, Aziraphale. I want to be yours and yours alone. I want to feel you lose yourself in me.”

How could Aziraphale say no to that? He didn’t even try, instead trailing his hand down Crowley’s chest and the firm muscles of his stomach until his fingers dipped under the waistband of Crowley’s underwear to stroke at the velvet skin of his cock. Lifting his hips, Crowley gasped and clung to Aziraphale, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Is that good, my darling?” he asked into Crowley’s hair, holding him close with his other arm.

Crowley’s response was less a word and more a bunch of consonants in a trench coat. Aziraphale smiled to himself and grasped more firmly at the hard length of Crowley’s erection. With a grumble, Crowley wriggled himself free of his underwear and kicked it away before turning his attention to ridding Aziraphale of his last item of clothing.

“We should- the window-” Aziraphale gestured vaguely towards the panoramic view of London less than two metres from the bed, his thoughts barely coherent even before running the gauntlet of vocalisation.

“Privacy glass, you could fuck me against it and no one would be any the wiser,” Crowley said, sounded far too collected for Aziraphale’s liking. He stroked Crowley’s cock with a bit more purpose.

He had to admit that the thought had merit, though. Pinning Crowley against the glass and taking him as all of London carried on below them, oblivious. He squirrelled the thought away for later, this time would be in a bed and that was final. He didn’t want there to be a single thing about this that either of them would regret.

“Please,” Crowley whimpered, dragging Aziraphale away from his musings. “Please, I need you, Aziraphale.”

His pleading tugged at Aziraphale’s heart and cock in almost equal measure, telling him with certainty that there would never be anyone like Crowley, there never had been and there never could be. He reached down the bed to the scattered pile of condoms and fetched the bottle of lube that sat beside it.

“You must tell me if you need me to stop or slow down, do you understand?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face for his answer.

Crowley nodded fervently, his bottom lip bitten and his eyes wide. Gently, Aziraphale positioned him so he was lying on his side facing Aziraphale and one leg cocked up over Aziraphale’s hip. Snapping the bottle open, Aziraphale squeezed a bit of lube onto his fingertip and smeared it with his thumb, letting it warm on his skin. Watching Crowley’s face closely, he brought his hand down behind Crowley’s raised thigh and stroked his cleft with slippery fingers.

His reward was immediate as Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed and a soft whine escaped his throat. He stroked over Crowley’s hole, teasing and calming him by turns until Crowley was relaxed enough for Aziraphale to press against him. Crowley gasped against Aziraphale’s neck as the first finger breached him; Aziraphale paused and held him until Crowley gave a little nod and Aziraphale felt confident in continuing.

Crowley was so hot and tight, just the thought of sinking his cock into this delicious grip was enough to leave Aziraphale feeling distinctly unhinged. It was all he could do to focus on gently opening Crowley up, not being greedy or demanding in his movements, no matter how much he wanted, craved, desired. He managed to be steady and methodical, even when Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s cock and stroked him to a hardness Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever feeling before.

Finally, Aziraphale felt that Crowley could take him and withdrew his fingers, kissing Crowley to soften the loss he might feel.

“I love you so much, Crowley, I’m going to make you feel incredible,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, tracing the lobe with the tip of his tongue.

Crowley shivered and barely suppressed a moan. As Aziraphale got to his knees, reaching for one of the many condoms, Crowley rolled onto his front and pulled his knees up.

“You are a tempting sight like that, but I would rather enjoy seeing your face,” Aziraphale said gently, reaching to help Crowley turn onto his back.

“Won’t feel as good for you,” Crowley grumbled, frowning. “Want to be good for you.”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels, knowing that he must look as confused as he felt.

“Where did you pick up an idea like that?” Aziraphale asked before his memory could supply the likely source, he saw Crowley wince and remembered all at once. He could kick himself for his idiocy, but his foot appeared to be firmly wedged in his mouth instead. “Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry.”

He reached out a hand, cautious and wary of being rebuked. Crowley, sweet, darling Crowley only reached for it and brought Aziraphale’s knuckles to his lips.

“Not your fault, angel” Crowley said with a shrug and, oh, how Aziraphale’s heart fluttered at that endearment. “Wish I could be less fucked up for you, like you deserve.”

Aziraphale couldn’t allow the man he loved to believe that he was anything short of perfection made flesh. He kissed Crowley soundly, cupping the back of his head and covering his body with his own.

“You are exactly as I want you. I wouldn’t change a single thing,” Aziraphale said, meaning it more than he’d ever meant anything before.

“Please,” Crowley whispered again, “show me?”

Aziraphale pulled away reluctantly, just enough to roll on a condom and slick himself with a healthy squeeze of lube. He would show Crowley exactly how fiercely he was loved, how good he could feel, how it should feel to be wholly cherished during lovemaking. With one hand on Crowley’s hip, Aziraphale moved to kneel between Crowley’s thighs. He eased Crowley’s legs up, pushing his knees back towards his shoulders until Aziraphale could nudge the head of his cock against Crowley’s hole.

“Yessssssss,” Crowley hissed, rocking his hips up impatiently.

Aziraphale tightened his grip on the back of Crowley’s thigh, holding him still as he slowly pressed forward. There was a flash of something like pain on Crowley’s face and Aziraphale froze, completely prepared to go back a step. Instead, he felt Crowley relax around him, making his progress easier.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he gasped, sounding as wrecked as he felt, “you feel incredible around me, so perfect.”

Crowley whined high in his throat, a red flush colouring him from his chest to his ears. It was not the reaction that Aziraphale had expected and he had just enough of a grasp on himself to file that discovery away for later. In the next moment, he had his hips flush with Crowley, buried to the hilt and entirely overwhelmed.

Crowley was everything. He was the heat of a sun, the gravitational draw of a black hole, the fleeting magic of a shooting star. Aziraphale was lost, completely gone with the sensation. He couldn’t remember starting to move, but he was thrusting now with Crowley’s legs wrapped around him. He had chosen no words and yet he was murmuring a stream of praise into Crowley’s skin, pressing his lips wherever he could reach. Crowley clung to him like a drowning man, there was nothing in the entire universe but the places where Aziraphale touched Crowley. This was the only thing that was real- Aziraphale felt peace and urgency in equal measure, he had never lost himself in sex like this before and he didn’t ever want it to end.

Beneath him, Crowley panted and whimpered, begging for  _ more, harder, _ and Aziraphale gave him everything he could. The tight heat of Crowley soon had him rocketing towards his climax, an ending he did not want to reach alone.

“Crowley,” he growled out, “I’m so close.” He felt Crowley’s cock twitch against his stomach, trapped between them. Leaning back a little, he guided one of Crowley’s hands to his straining erection. “Stroke yourself for me, show me your pleasure.”

Crowley groaned, his eyes squeezed shut, but his fingers wrapped around his cock all the same and began to tug in rough, jerking movements. Aziraphale thrust in again and Crowley near screamed as the altered angle forced Aziraphale’s cock against his prostate. A dribble of precome leaked onto his stomach and Aziraphale made a concerted effort to replicate the motion with his next few thrusts until Crowley cried out, his free arm covering his face, and his cock shooting streaks of come across his torso.

The clenching of Crowley’s muscles combined with the intensely erotic sight of him painting his own chest pushed Aziraphale over the edge of his own climax. He shuddered as stars burst behind his eyelids, he could hear his voice calling to Crowley, sounding destroyed and desperate. It was over too soon, but Aziraphale knew that it would always feel this intense, this perfect with Crowley. 

They had a lifetime of these moments to look forward to, as many as they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I do, folks? Do we forgive Crowley?
> 
> Just an epilogue to go. Please scream with me as we reach the end of the track
> 
> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me, I know this last chapter has been a while coming and I appreciate you all so much for the patience you've shown.
> 
> This story owes its existence to so many people. I want to thank Robyn, Kim, Bucky, Jessi, Sarah, Autymn, Haley, and Ran for the cheerleading, art, support, and brainstorming. I love you all very much.

Aziraphale woke, much like he had all those months ago, with Crowley pressed against his back. It was warm and reassuring, the way Crowley snuggled close in his sleep, making Aziraphale feel wanted and welcome. He was loathe to move and disrupt their shared comfort but the morning had brought with it a dry mouth and a full bladder.

Moving slowly and carefully, he freed himself of Crowley’s arms and slipped out of the bed. He didn’t appear to have woken Crowley and allowed himself an indulgent smile as he padded around to the bathroom. 

Crowley had shifted a little by the time Aziraphale emerged, he leaned against the door frame with a glass of cold water in one hand and let himself take in the view. One arm was stretched across the space where Aziraphale had been lying and his face was turned into the pillow. The lean curve of his naked back drew Aziraphale’s gaze to the dips above his pelvis, just before the duvet obscured his view. For a few moments, Aziraphale was content to simply feast his eyes on the simple beauty before him, taking in this intimate moment and knowing that he was allowed this pleasure.

“S’rude t’stare,” said Crowley, muffled by lingering sleep and a pillow.

“It’s not staring when you’re appreciating art,” Aziraphale responded, moving back to his side of the bed. “Would you like a little water, love?”

Crowley looked up at him with one eye which swiftly closed.

“No, want you t’get back in bed,” he said decisively.

Powerless to resist, Aziraphale chuckled and slid back between the sheets where he was immediately tangled in Crowley’s embrace once more. Barely managing to wriggle into something close to a comfortable position, he pressed kisses into Crowley’s hair and relaxed into the soft mattress.

“You were gone,” Crowley said quietly into Aziraphale’s chest, “I didn’t like that.”

“Not far, not for long,” Aziraphale soothed.

“I know,” Crowley replied before turning his face up for a proper kiss.

They dozed together a while longer, exchanging lazy kisses from time to time, until a sharp knock at the door made Crowley groan. Aziraphale watched him fling himself out of bed in a mess of limbs and red hair and then mourned the moment that he shrugged a robe over his shoulders.

“Breakfast seemed like such a good idea last night,” Crowley grumbled as he headed for the door.

Aziraphale pulled the duvet up over his chest as Crowley answered the knock. Crowley might be feeling more comfortable with their relationship being in the open, but that was no reason to go around flashing the hotel staff. A moment later, he heard the door close and Crowley appeared back in the bedroom.

“Come on, I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite,” he teased, throwing a second bathrobe onto the bed for Aziraphale.

Whoever had been at the door, they weren’t in the suite when Aziraphale emerged from the bedroom. Instead, he found Crowley unloading plates and covered dishes from a service trolley onto the table they’d eaten dinner at the night before.

“Moonlighting as a waiter now, are we?” Aziraphale asked as he stepped close to hold Crowley from behind, his arms sliding loosely around Crowley’s waist.

“Oh yeah, gotta have a trade to fall back on in case this music lark doesn’t work out,” Crowley said, dropping a handful of cutlery onto the table and twisting to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek. “Now sit down and eat with me.”

Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to discover that he was ravenous. The past 24 hours had been both emotionally and physically taxing, culminating in hours of soul-scouring conversation and deeply passionate intimacy. Between the two of them, they demolished a stack of toast, a spread of traditional cooked breakfast items, most of a fruit salad, a whole carafe of orange juice, and a couple of pastries. Aziraphale was feeling pleasantly full when Crowley spoke again.

“You make that look pornographic, you know?” He stood and rounded the table, making Aziraphale turn in his seat to watch him. “The way you eat, the way you savour every bite, even when you’re starving, it fucking undoes me.” He climbed into Aziraphale’s lap, straddling his thighs and draping his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

The spread of his legs forced the bottom of his robe to fall open, exposing his inner thighs and the hang of his soft cock. Aziraphale knew that he was staring but couldn’t find a reason to care.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale asked in a low voice, noticing the way Crowley’s body responded to him. He ran his hands up Crowley’s legs, under the terrycloth of the robe until his palms gripped at Crowley’s hips. “And now you’re here, looking especially delicious.”

In the next instant, they were kissing. Aziraphale couldn’t tell who had closed the distance between their lips, who had first pressed a questing tongue into the other’s mouth, all he knew was the taste of jam in Crowley’s kiss and the desperate hand at the back of his head.

Dimly, he thought of hefting Crowley onto the table and taking him right there. Luckily, sense prevailed before all his blood rushed to his cock and he managed to break away from the kiss long enough to growl that they should relocate. Crowley all but slithered off his lap and pulled him back towards the bedroom by a wrist, clearly as eager as Aziraphale for another tangle in the sheets.

Shedding his robe at the foot of the bed, Crowley snatched up the lube and a condom only to tuck them into Aziraphale’s pocket before opening the tie around his waist.

As long, clever fingers closed around Aziraphale’s hard cock he backed Crowley up against a window, kissing and crowding him until there was just enough room between them for Crowley to move his hand along Aziraphale’s length.

“You maddening, gorgeous creature,” Aziraphale said into the skin of Crowley’s throat between kisses, “I love you so much.”

Crowley lifted his hips, rutting his cock against Aziraphale’s thigh in need.

“Love you, want you,” Crowley muttered, “right here, I want it right here against this window.”

Aziraphale didn’t even pretend like he had an objection, pulling away to dig the lube out of his pocket as Crowley released his cock and turned to press his palms into the glass, offering his arse like a gift.

With a slick finger, Aziraphale circled Crowley’s hole and pressed gently until the muscles relaxed enough to let him in. Doing his best to ignore Crowley’s impatient whining and wriggling, Aziraphale opened him up as thoroughly as he could before rolling on a condom and stroking lube down the length of his cock.

“Ready, love?” he asked, nudging the head against Crowley’s entrance.

“Yes!” The answer came with a hungry roll of Crowley’s hips, pushing back to try and get what he wanted. Aziraphale eased himself inside, feeling his breath grow shallow and Crowley’s trembling increase. “Fuck.” The word seemed to have been punched out of Crowley’s lungs as Aziraphale filled him.

Leaning forward, Aziraphale rested his forehead between Crowley’s shoulder blades as he fought to keep control of himself. His robe fell open around Crowley’s body, surrounding him in white softness. It felt like wrapping part of himself around Crowley, claiming him. Before Aziraphale could get too caught up in his ruminations, Crowley’s whimpered and the urge to thrust claimed his attention.

Aziraphale worked up the intensity of his movements until he found a rhythm that had Crowley crying out, pressing closer until Crowley’s chest and shoulders were rubbing against the window with each thrust. A flash of a memory sprinted through Aziraphale’s mind: another window, another time, a broken heart. He kissed Crowley’s shoulder and focused on experiencing everything in this moment, letting this shared love heal over the parts that had been hurt.

Below them the Thames flowed past in dull, brown eddies, people went about their days, birds pecked at litter, and no one cared about what was happening in a suite high above. 

Crowley’s back was hot against Aziraphale’s chest, heaving with laboured, needy breaths. Feeling his own climax approaching, Aziraphale dropped kisses over every inch of Crowley’s skin that he could reach. Squeezing his hips once, Aziraphale looped one hand around to find Crowley’s cock, hard and bouncing with their combined movements.

“Yessss,” Crowley hissed, dropping his head against the glass in relief.

“Are you close?” Aziraphale asked as he stroked Crowley’s cock with intent.

“Very, yes,” Crowley answered, pushing back into Aziraphale a little. “You feel incredible, perfect.”

Aziraphale came a moment later, overwhelmed with pleasure and sensation as his climax had him shuddering and gasping. One of Crowley’s hands closed over Aziraphale’s, keeping it moving over Crowley’s cock as he chased his own orgasm. He came back to himself just in time to feel Crowley stiffen and gasp, clenching around Aziraphale’s twitching cock. Closing his hand over the head of Crowley’s erection, he felt the wet heat of release hit his palm.

“I love you,” Crowley mumbled, slumping.

Aziraphale urged him to turn for a kiss before steering him towards the bed. Crowley collapsed in a boneless sprawl while Aziraphale went to the bathroom to clean up. Joining Crowley a minute later, he cuddled up, was treated to a pleased, lazy kiss, and found his voice enough to ask when they’d have to check out of the suite.

“Whenever we want,” Crowley answered, “I know it’s terrible but the rules really are different when you’re famous.”

For one day, Aziraphale could accept the unfair state of the world, especially when it meant he didn’t have to move out of this bed - or his lover’s arms - until he was ready.

They checked out around mid-afternoon, wearing yesterday’s clothes and the genuine smiles of a couple deeply in love. The hotel manager herself came to meet Crowley, thanking him for staying and then insisting that use of the suite had been a gift from the hotel. With token insistence, Crowley managed to leave a sizeable tip for the staff who had assisted them. Aziraphale had to look away at that point, afraid that the heat of his blush would give away everything about their stay.

As they walked out of the hotel, hand in hand, with Crowley explaining why places like the Savoy give away their services to popular celebrities, an opportunist photographer got a shot of them. Aziraphale froze, uncertain of what would come next. Crowley only smiled, squeezed his hand, and leaned forward to open the door of the car waiting for them.

“It’s OK,” Crowley said once they were in the car, “after yesterday’s rather public display, people will be interested for a bit. We can see how you get on and plan from there.”

Relaxing, Aziraphale managed to return his smile. His life wouldn’t ever be the same again and he simply couldn’t wait.

Back in Soho, a couple of paparazzi were loitering between the shop and the flat. Crowley waved to them as they got out of the car and grabbed the bag he’d left with his driver before heading into yesterday’s press conference. 

In the privacy of the flat, reality began to press in from all sides. Aziraphale called Tracy to give her enough gossip to keep her happy for a while, then he called Newt to apologise and discuss what would happen with the shop for the next few days. Crowley called his bandmates so they could settle their various wagers and gloat at him, finally giving in to their insistence that he call their manager before his supply of good will ran dry. That phone call appeared to go better than Crowley expected; Aziraphale watched the tension leave his face and shoulders with a palpable relief of his own. He got so distracted that Maud had to to shout to get his attention back to their phone call. 

Finally, with almost all of the vitally important people up to date, Crowley stopped pacing and dropped onto the sofa, gesturing for Aziraphale to join him. Aziraphale found himself leaning against Crowley’s chest, reclining in love and comfort as Crowley dialled one more contact.

“Hi mum,” he said when the call connected. Aziraphale felt his heart lurch and he must have flinched because Crowley’s hand moved over his chest to give him a comforting squeeze. “Ah, yes, you’ve seen the news then?” Aziraphale could hear a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone but couldn’t make out the words. “Well, yes, but that’s hardly my fault. You’re the one who set up a google alert on my name.” There was something in the easy way that Crowley teased his mother that tugged at Aziraphale’s heart. His own parents had died so long ago that he’d forgotten what it could be like. “I’m calling you now though, aren’t I? Do you want to hear about this from me or should I give an interview to TMZ?” Another pause and Aziraphale could hear Crowley’s mother laughing.

“I’m putting you on speakerphone, behave yourself, mother.” Crowley pressed the screen and held the phone out between them. “Mum, I want you to say hello to Aziraphale, my boyfriend.”

Aziraphale had to stifle a giggle, all too pleased at hearing Crowley referring to him in that way.

“Hello Aziraphale, I’m Kimberly,” her soft Scottish accent added to the warmth in her voice, “Anthony’s mother.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt like he was 7 years old and trying to ask for a cup of juice in a friend’s house. He swallowed quickly and tried to remember that he was a grown man.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kimberly, I’m sorry for the unconventional order of events.” He felt like an idiot as soon as his mouth closed but Crowley squeezed him again and Kimberly laughed kindly.

“You’ve got yourself a proper gentleman there, Anthony!” The cadence of her teasing was familiar and comfortable, hearing echoes of Crowley in her words helped. “Aziraphale, don’t you worry about all of that, you’ll get used to things being all upside-down and inside-out. With the way Anthony’s been talking about you for the past year, I knew I’d get to meet you sooner or later.”

“Alright mum! Enough of that!” Crowley hurried to squash any potential embarrassment and now it was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. “This was just a formality so you wouldn’t write me out of the will, I’ll bring him up to meet you when I can.”

“See that you do, or I’ll leave the good tea set to your cousins.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Crowley gasped, clearly performing a bit so well-rehearsed the edges had rubbed smooth.

“Bye Anthony, bye Aziraphale,” Kimberly said, a smile in her voice.

“Bye mum, love you,” said Crowley before ending the call. “Sorry for springing that on you, didn’t want you to have too long to worry about it.”

Aziraphale let his head drop back onto Crowley’s chest, wrapping an arm around him and getting comfortable.

“Quite alright, I’m glad you did. She seems delightful,” Aziraphale said truthfully.

“She is, I think you’ll really like her.”

* * *

“Stop fidgeting,” Crowley said, taking hold of Aziraphale’s hands, “you look wonderful and there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Easy for you to say,” Aziraphale grumbled as he tried his hardest not to look out of the window.

The car was crawling along with crowds of people lining the pavement either side of them; it was making Aziraphale feel distinctly unwell.

“Say the word and we’ll head back to your place, watch the whole thing on telly instead,” Crowley offered.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale forced himself to smile.

“No, no, I want to do this,” he said, trying to sound confident. “You deserve to be here and I want to support you.”

Crowley squeezed his hands and leaned in for a kiss. Still thrilled each time their lips touched, Aziraphale relaxed into the joy of it and felt some of the tension leave his body. Breathing more easily, Aziraphale freed one of his hands to stroke Crowley’s cheek. They broke apart just before the car came to a complete stop.

Sunlight flooded the interior as an usher pulled the door open and offered a hand to Crowley. There was a sudden explosion of snapping camera shutters as he straightened and briefly waved at the crowds. Aziraphale felt small and unimportant, still sitting in the car whilst his rockstar boyfriend soaked up the attention. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley was leaning back into the car and holding out his hand to Aziraphale, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

The shaking of his legs must have been visible to every photographer and reporter within a mile, but Aziraphale climbed out of the car to stand beside Crowley without collapsing. As they stepped onto the red carpet, Crowley laced his fingers between Aziraphale’s with a whispered promise not to let go of him for the length of the gauntlet ahead of them.

They walked a few paces at a time, stopping at various marks for photographs and brief interviews. With Crowley being honoured at the ceremony that night, most of the questions were fluff that he handled with an ease that Aziraphale recognised for the mask it was. He was openly affectionate with Aziraphale, giving the photographers plenty of material whenever he used a kiss as cover to whisper something silly into Aziraphale’s ear. Giggling helped Aziraphale to relax, the gentle teasing and witty observations really took the sting out of the few rude questions that were yelled from within the crowds of press. Crowley had told Aziraphale to expect them, that the tabloids would do anything to get a reaction. He remembered all too well how it had felt to be hounded with impertinent, personal questions. At least he had managed to develop a good poker face.

Things changed when it was fans screaming for Crowley’s attention, holding out CDs, posters, vinyl sleeves, and much more besides, all hoping to get his autograph and maybe a picture.

Just as Aziraphale was about to release Crowley’s hand and relinquish him to the horde, Crowley took up Aziraphale’s right hand and dropped his left. With their positions switched, Crowley tugged Aziraphale up to the barrier with him where he managed to sign dozens of autographs without once letting go of Aziraphale. 

To his very great surprise, most of the fans wanted Aziraphale in their selfies as well. Spotting the proliferation of pride pins, flags, and general decorations that marked Crowley’s fans helped Aziraphale make sense of that. Crowley was important to these people for far more than just his music and Aziraphale represented part of that. He felt honoured and more than a little choked up.

At the bar inside, they met up with the rest of the band, all dressed in their own versions of black tie. After a drink to calm his nerves and joining in with a few jokes about Crowley’s “Lifetime Achievement” award signalling the beginning of the end, Aziraphale felt far more comfortable. He even managed to offer the invitation that Maud had made him promise he’d deliver. Neither he nor Crowley were sure how Maud and Leslie were going to fit the usual group and Crowley’s bandmates around one dining table, but that was for them to sort out.

As Crowley’s award was a bit of a set piece, he was whisked away from the audience to prepare a short while before it was due to be presented. Aziraphale was quite happy being left with the band until Ligur reminded him that they’d be filmed for their reactions. Dagon elbowed Ligur in the ribs for winding Aziraphale up, but the thought had been planted and Aziraphale could only worry about how he was going to hold his face for a camera he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Finally, Sam Smith stepped onto the stage and read a short speech about what an honour it was to present this award to Crowley, how they had always looked up to Crowley as aspirational during the early days of their own career, and how they knew of countless others who had found strength and solace in Crowley’s work. Aziraphale’s vision began to swim a little and he tried to blink away tears so he could focus on the video montage of Crowley’s career highlights. Beside him, he could hear snuffly sobbing and a quick glance told him that Ligur was weeping openly. So much for being composed for the camera!

The video ended and Crowley walked onto the stage, his signature strut muted by the importance of the occasion. Standing at the podium, he seemed to take a moment to gather himself but Aziraphale felt certain that he was scanning the crowd, looking for him. As soon as their eyes met, Crowley smiled and began to speak.

Forgetting almost everything else, Aziraphale beamed with pride and love as he watched Crowley joke his way through a speech he’d been practising all week. It still felt surreal to be sitting there, surrounded by all the big names in British music, watching his love accept an enormous honour, but it was surreal in perfectly lovely ways.

Later, back at Aziraphale’s flat and after they had celebrated a little in private, Crowley made sure that Aziraphale knew exactly how well he had done at his first red carpet event. 

* * *

There was, not unexpectedly, some friction over living arrangements. Aziraphale didn’t want to leave London and his friends, nor did he want to give up his business and live off Crowley’s earnings. Crowley didn’t want to move to London full-time and disliked how accessible Aziraphale was to the public and the press.

After a few weeks of the couple spending Monday night to Saturday evening in London and the remainder at Crowley’s house in Sussex, several events collided at once, forcing the issue to a head.

During a dinner at Leslie and Maud’s place with the usual crowd, Aziraphale let slip that he had received a threatening letter in his morning post. It was a vague kind of threat from someone who didn’t think he was good enough for Crowley and had unhealthy ways of expressing themselves. Aziraphale had thought it rather funny, but the look in Crowley’s eyes suggested that it was no laughing matter. Tracy and Maud appeared to share his concerns, leaving Aziraphale feeling outnumbered and wrong-footed.

In an attempt to distract the group and dispel the growing tension, Arthur chose that moment to announce that he’d been made redundant. He was actually rather pleased, having been awarded a significant redundancy package and finding that he had the freedom to choose a new path. He suggested that he was considering starting his own business.

Clearly uncomfortable about walking home in the dark with someone threatening Aziraphale, Crowley called for a car to take them home at the end of the night. Aziraphale had wanted to protest that he was being silly, but all his arguments sounded hollow before he could even voice them. It wasn’t worth getting upset over.

When they got back to the flat in Soho, a letter was sitting on the kitchen table, left by Shadwell at some point during the day. Aziraphale opened it as something to do instead of confronting the elephant in the room. It was from a publisher he had sent his book pitch to, informing him that they were interested in publishing his research. The advance was small, but that wasn’t important. Aziraphale was overjoyed with the news, hugging Crowley and pushing the letter into his hands. 

“I think we need to talk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale’s stomach had dropped like a stone, the blood draining from his face as dread took hold. Crowley quickly recognised his mistake and kissed Aziraphale’s concerns away, apologising for his thoughtless words.

Once safely snuggled in bed, Crowley spoke again. He brought up his concerns for Aziraphale’s safety and his ability to provide comfortably for them both. He suggested selling the bookshop to Arthur who was in need of a new direction and would give Aziraphale a tidy nest egg of his own, along with the profit from selling the flat. With this, Aziraphale could put more time into research and writing, if that’s what he wanted to do. He didn’t have to be a kept man.

Aziraphale considered all this, now feeling rather more unsettled by the threatening letter following the reactions at dinner and Crowley’s serious concern. Splitting his time between London and Sussex was exhausting, as well as wearing on Crowley who clearly hated spending this much time in London. He kissed Crowley soundly and asked to be given time to think about it. 

The next threatening letter had no stamp or postmark, having been stuffed under the shop door at some point before Aziraphale opened up. That rather decided things for him.

Arthur was thrilled with the idea and began spending all his time at the bookshop “learning the trade”. He was good with customers and patient with Newt; Aziraphale felt that everything else was secondary. They agreed on a price that wasn’t insulting to either of them and began the legal transfer almost immediately.

Aziraphale tried to encourage Shadwell to look into the possibility of buying the flat but the very idea was laughable. The man barely paid rent in a good month and, property prices in Soho being what they were, Shadwell didn’t stand a chance of raising a deposit or securing a mortgage. 

On the other hand, Tracy was very interested in stepping onto the property ladder. She still had a lot of her inheritance squirrelled away, and her new best friend was willing to act as a guarantor with the bank. Having Anthony J. Crowley’s name on her mortgage application caused a few raised eyebrows, but when he turned up to sign the paperwork, no one questioned it. Aziraphale knocked a significant percentage off the price of the flat because Tracy was his sister and one does that sort of thing for family, and because the flat came with custody of Shadwell which really did affect the property value.

In what felt like a mere blink of an eye, Aziraphale had settled his affairs in London and officially moved in with Crowley. 

* * *

Dinner with Aziraphale’s friends and Crowley’s band mates took months of organising and, although Crowley and Aziraphale were still regular dinner guests with Leslie and Maud, it was decided that the occasion called for a larger venue. So it was that Aziraphale and Crowley took over hosting duties, extending the planned dinner into a weekend at Crowley’s Sussex home.

Aziraphale arranged the menu while Crowley got in a specialist to make sure that Maud would be able to get around the house with ease. He even had modifications made to the gardens and pool, just to be sure that nowhere would be off limits to her.

Crowley worked out who would be sleeping where, and Aziraphale made Shadwell swear to be on his best behaviour. He’d really earned his place in the group and had taken surprisingly well to living with Tracy. He’d even managed to accept Tracy using the kitchen table for her tarot reading appointments without making too much of a fuss.

In a scene that Beelzebub described as “sickeningly domestic” when they arrived, Crowley and Aziraphale cooked the whole meal together. Arthur apologised out of habit, despite being perfectly on time. His smiles lacked their earlier bitterness, warming his whole face instead. Aziraphale was delighted to see the change in him - clearly being his own boss was agreeing with him. Tracy had convinced Arthur to give her and Shadwell a lift from London and then talked his ear off the whole way about a beautiful woman she’d done a tarot reading for a few days before. Ligur let himself into the house with a familiarity that delighted Aziraphale no end. Leslie and Maud arrived shortly after Ligur. In the time it took for Aziraphale to get to the door, Maud had recognised how new the ramp was and burst into tears. Fearing he had offended her, Crowley came rushing out to apologise only to end up giving Maud the first full house tour she’d been given since the accident. Dagon was late enough to miss the first course which worried Aziraphale but none of the band seemed concerned. Her poor time keeping was apparently well known. Aziraphale made a note to always tell her a time at least half an hour ahead of schedule for future events.

To Aziraphale’s great delight, everyone made an effort to socialise outside of their established circles. Ligur and Leslie were cackling away together almost immediately, Tracy delighted everyone she spoke to simply by being her somewhat loopy self, Arthur and Beelzebub discovered a shared love of classic steam engines, and Shadwell had Dagon and Maud in stitches with his dramatic re-enactment of the first time he met Crowley.

Aziraphale was watching from a doorway, feeling content and truly happy, when Crowley took hold of him from behind and rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. That, as they say, dialled the moment up to eleven.

* * *

About a year after moving to Sussex, Aziraphale bought an engagement ring. He had no plan, no grand gesture worked out, he just knew that he wanted to be able to call Crowley his husband and trusted that he would recognise the moment when it arose. He carried the ring with him for weeks, developing a nervous habit of checking for it whenever he left the house, but no moment felt right.

One evening, Leslie and Maud had summoned their nearest and dearest to another sub-par dinner with top-notch company. Tracy had brought her girlfriend, Agnes, and Arthur had managed to spend the night constantly mentioning a woman named Deirdre whom he’d met at the bookshop. The atmosphere of joy and contentment would have been stifling to a less loving group of friends.

When Maud announced that she and Leslie had been approved to adopt a pair of siblings, Aziraphale knew that this was the feeling he wanted to capture. He watched Crowley hug the new parents, promising them the moon and more should they need it, and closed his fingers around the box in his pocket. Tonight would be the night, just not here where they would steal Leslie and Maud’s well-deserved thunder.

Still riding the high of the evening’s news and more than a little champagne, Aziraphale didn’t think twice about Crowley’s request to walk back to their hotel. Holding hands, they walked a route they had taken together so many months before until they were once again in St James’s Park. 

This, Aziraphale thought, this is where I should ask him. They approached the bench where they had played at being secret agents and seemed to drop onto it as one unit. Aziraphale’s hand found the ring box once more and he tried to draw the strength to finally present it properly.

Crowley cleared his throat, making Aziraphale look up from the spot of path he’d been staring at.

“Aziraphale,” he said, his voice shaking, “I love you so much and – hang on – I want nothing more than to spend my whole life with you.” Aziraphale’s jaw fell open as Crowley slipped off the bench and onto one knee. In his hands was a small box of black velvet. “Will you marry me?” he asked as he opened the box to reveal a silver-coloured band.

Aziraphale’s mouth made a few aborted attempts at speech. He wanted to say yes, of course he did, what he actually said was: “You bastard!”

Crowley’s face fell, confused by the reaction. Before he could cock up any more, Aziraphale got to his knees in front of Crowley and pulled out his own small, velvet box. Realisation dawned on Crowley’s face as Aziraphale opened the box to present the palladium ring he’d been carrying for weeks.

“I was just about to ask you that!”

Utterly delighted with themselves, they kissed where they knelt and giggled through exchanging rings with only the ducks to witness the complete fools they were. It wouldn’t be until some time later, enjoying a celebratory post-coital cuddle in their hotel room bed, that either of them realised that neither of them had actually said yes.

* * *

One late spring morning, in an antechamber of a 17th century castle, Aziraphale got dressed in the kilt that Crowley had given him, a white shirt, and a slim, black jacket. He fussed with his hair for a moment before giving it up as a lost cause and letting the curls lay as they wished. It was too wonderful a day for him to worry about something as trivial as his hair. 

Tracy and Maud cooed over him and tweaked at his clothing until it all lay perfectly whilst Leslie laughed and took pictures. 

Across the hall, Aziraphale knew that Crowley was doing the same; dressing and being fussed over by his friends and mother. In a few short minutes, they would meet at the entrance to a beautiful hall and walk down an aisle, arm in arm. Everyone who mattered to them was there, waiting to witness the legal joining of two hearts that had belonged to each other in every other way for so long. Aziraphale wondered if he was supposed to feel nervous, even though he didn’t. This was everything he wanted and more.

Arthur stuck his head around the door, signalling that it was time to begin. Aziraphale’s half of the wedding party filed out to line up beside Crowley’s, taking their places for the procession. Aziraphale hung back, waiting until the last moment before allowing himself to see Crowley.

He looked resplendent, positively regal in his kilt and jacket, with his hair falling in soft, artful waves about his face. He smiled, all teeth and no pretence, as he saw Aziraphale, making no attempt to hide the way he looked him up and down. Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest and he offered his elbow to Crowley. They kissed, unable to resist the draw of each other, and earned a playful hiss from both Tracy and Beelzebub.

The procession started and Aziraphale had to tear his eyes away from Crowley, settling instead for covering Crowley’s hand with his own and squeezing lightly. He smiled at their guests, nodding to those who met his eyes. There wasn’t a single person present that he didn’t know, no industry faces invited for clout or favour, no distant relatives there out of obligation, just friends and loved ones.

Shadwell sat with Raven and Scarlet, Leslie and Maud’s children. Agnes and Deirdre were on the other side of the children, having quickly proven themselves to the tight-knit group of friends. Aziraphale knew that Arthur intended to propose to Deirdre before the end of the summer, and Agnes had such a perfectly no-nonsense attitude when it came to dealing with Shadwell that none of them could imagine life without her.

Aziraphale and Crowley were married with simple words and traditional vows, everything that they might have said instead having been spoken countless times before. Crowley gave Aziraphale a platinum band of celtic knotwork. Aziraphale was so taken with the look of it on his finger that he almost forgot to give Crowley his own ring, a flat band of platinum carved with tiny starbursts and set with diamonds, mimicking the night sky. 

They kissed to enthusiastic applause and signed the register as swiftly as possible, both far too eager to get on with the future of married life that awaited them.

In the gardens, they had drinks, posed for photographs, and allowed Scarlet and Raven to shower them with confetti. Crowley did his utmost to spoil at least half of the photos by whispering all of his ideas about what they might do that night into Aziraphale’s ear, which only made Aziraphale grin wider and return his own suggestions until Crowley was a bright red wreck.

There was dinner, and there were speeches, Aziraphale remembered enjoying them but very little else because then there was dancing.  _ The Demons  _ set up as a three-piece on a small stage whilst Crowley heckled them about considering a career as a wedding band. Beelzebub stuck out their tongue at him and shooed him back into Aziraphale’s waiting arms.

“ _ You’ve got a way with me _ ,” Beelzebub sang, their voice both sweet and husky.

Taking Crowley’s waist, Aziraphale drew him into a simple dance and focused on the overwhelming amount of love in the room. He’d never been so happy in his entire life and now he would get to live this every day. He could never even have dreamed of being this content.

* * *

Aziraphale stood beside Jason, the guitar tech, and watched  _ The Demons _ do what they did best. The O2 Arena was packed to the rafters, completely sold out for the first show of a world tour that would have the band playing in a hundred different cities before the end of the year. Unconsciously, Aziraphale began to worry at his wedding ring with his thumb, twisting it around his finger. He had flights booked to join Crowley for a couple of stretches of the tour but, for the most part, he was staying at home to start research on his third book. He’d miss Crowley dreadfully, of course, but at least they had those visits to look forward to.

Jason picked up Crowley’s black acoustic guitar and began to check the tuning, preparing for when he’d have to switch Crowley’s guitars over. Aziraphale gave him space to work, something that the O2 had in abundance. Laura appeared suddenly, her arms full of towels and water bottles for the band. Smiling, Aziraphale helped her set them out and cracked the tops on the bottles. 

Moments later, he has to step aside to avoid being trampled by Dagon as she bolted from the stage to down two whole bottles of water. Beelzebub stripped off their sweat-soaked shirt and grabbed a towel to dry off before pulling on a fresh t-shirt, and Ligur cycled between drinking, flexing his aching fingers, and asking for new sticks after getting ahead of himself and lobbing some into the crowd. 

Aziraphale basked in their energy, almost missing the moment that Crowley leaned across the guitar rack to snake his arm around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. They kissed, hard and fast, to the sound of 20,000 fans screaming. Too soon, Crowley was handing his guitar to Jason and slinging the acoustic over his head. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand three times and grinned widely before heading out onto the stage alone. 

Ligur draped an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders and Beelzebub tucked themselves under his arm, starting a chain reaction amongst musicians and crew as they all gathered to watch Crowley approach the mic, illuminated in a simple spotlight.

“You lot are WILD!” he said to a fresh burst of screaming. “The rest of the band are just catching their breath, but there’s no rest for the wicked, eh?” He strummed the guitar once and the crowd fell silent, putty in his hands. With a grin just for Aziraphale, Crowley winked into the wings. “I wrote this song for my husband when I thought I’d lost him forever. If you only remember one thing I say tonight, let it be that where there is love, there’s hope.” With that, he began to play the song that always took Aziraphale’s breath away.

_ Do you hate me  
_ _ now that you know  
_ _ I wasn’t ever  
_ _ the man on show _

_ It’s better this way  
_ _ Lord, though it hurts  
_ _ I still need you here  
_ _ And I think that’s worse _

_ The best thing I could ever be  
_ _ Is whatever you could make of me  
_ _ Someone who can listen  
_ _ Someone less stubborn  
_ _ Is it too late to be,  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you? _

_ Will you still haunt me  
_ _ Once I’ve forgotten  
_ _ All that it was  
_ _ Just to hold your hand? _

_   
_ _ All I could want to be  
_ _ Is anything you’d take of me  
_ _ Someone who hears  
_ _ Someone more worthy  
_ _ Is it too late to be,  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you?  
_ _ Is it too late to be,  
_ _ The me who doesn’t lose you? _

_ I’ll take this ugly pity  
_ _ Bury it in a hundred songs  
_ _ Hope you can hear my sorry  
_ _ For each of my many wrongs. _

_ Is it too late to be  
_ _ Is it too late to be  
_ _ The me who gets to keep you? _

_ Is it too late to be  
_ _ Is it too late to be  
_ _ It wasn’t too late to be  
_ __ Yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! It's over! I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I appreciate you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Reach](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201419) by [elizabethelizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth)




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